


The Viscount's Mistress

by manka



Series: Miracles and Heroes of Thedas [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Cadash-Centric (Dragon Age), Carta dwarves with hearts of gold, Cute Cole (Dragon Age), Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/M, Human Cole (Dragon Age), Implied miscarriage, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Inquisitor Backstory, Inquisitor sibling problems, Inqusitor Cadash is dying, POV Inquisitor, POV Varric Tethras, Past Bianca Davri/Varric Tethras, Past Inquisitor Cadash/OC Male Dwarf, Protective Dorian Pavus, Varric wants a baby, always consensual, but maybe not safe or sane, everyone is sad, papa fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-02-04 15:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 180,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18607525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/manka
Summary: Nobody predicted the darling of the Cadash Carta family would resurrect the long-dead Inquisition.And if you would have asked if Kirkwall would ever have named the most notable resident of the Hanged Man their Viscount, the patrons of that un-esteemed establishment would have laughed you right out.Fate is a fickle thing, but some dwarves are just lucky that way.Varric Tethras and Maria Cadash have loved, lost, survived, and conquered the world. There should be time to enjoy their success and rebuild Thedas, while building a family of their own. After all, if Fenris and Hawke can raise a baby it can't be that hard, right?If only the anchor that helped Maria save the world wasn't, you know, also killing her.





	1. Bad Dreams

_ “I’m sure Zarra Cadash always sends you when she wants a sweet deal.” The man grumbled, a smirk twisting his features into something hard and predatory. “It’s not fair to send her pretty granddaughter to her dirty work.”  _

_ Maria had her back to Beatrix, but she felt the younger woman stop her aimless browsing. Maria could almost see her sister’s hand creeping toward a dagger. Bea was always so damn eager for a fight.  _

_ “But I’m just signing off on it.” Maria flashed a look up through her eyelashes and smiled. “I think you did most of the hard work.”  _

_ The older dwarf’s expression turned indulgent in a moment, melting into something smug and satisfied. Maria let her eyes flick to the mirror in the corner, which caught Beatrix rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. Maria very nearly laughed.  _

_ “Well, I suppose there’s nothing like teaching the young a thing or two.” The dwarf preened his beard thoughtfully. “And sometimes, there are some good ideas rattling around in your empty heads. My boy, must be around your age. This whole venture was his idea.”  _

_ “A fine one.” Maria supplied helpfully. “Sure he’d have never been able to make it work without your business sense, though.”  _

_ The man threw his head back and laughed, grabbing his protruding stomach as he guffawed. “Damn right he wouldn’t. He thinks he can make his coin back selling to whatever cause he likes at the moment. There’s really only one winner in a battle, and that’s whoever is making a profit.”  _

_ “That’s why we’re here.” Maria winked roguishly. “Fun and profit.”  _

_ As the words rolled off her tongue, Maria heard the door open behind them. The tang of the ocean drifted into the storefront, lifted a loose strand of red hair off her cheek. The dwarf in front of her straightened, almost nervously, and Maria looked over her shoulder.  _

_ Beatrix held the ugliest  golden statuette of a nug in one of her hands that had, quite possibly, ever been created. She quickly sat it back down, sheepish and contrite as she eyed the dwarven man standing in the door from the periphery of her eyes. He raised an eyebrow.  _

_ “I was hoping you were stealing that. I keep thinking it’s looking at me whenever I come here.”  _

_ Bea blushed, the color rising up in her cheeks as she smiled reflexively. The man was already turning his attention to Maria and the dwarf behind the counter, who was quickly rolling up documents.  _

_ Ah, the son with too many principles who was bad for business. He was a younger, handsomer version of his father with chestnut colored hair and coal dark eyes. His eyes swept the counter, lingered on his father’s hands as he brushed the documents away, then landed on her.  _

_ She didn’t miss the lingering appreciation in his gaze. Still, she felt like he was pinning her with those dark eyes when he tore his eyes away from the curve of her hip. “Fun and profit?” He questioned.  _

_ “Fynn, this is…” The man behind the counter began, but Maria had stepped forward, offering her hand.  _

_ “Lika Hararr.” She lied smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to be doing business with you on my father’s behalf. I’ve heard you’re the best.”  _

_ “And what kind of business are we doing?” Fynn asked suspiciously, very purposefully not looking at her, but behind her. Maria dropped her hand.  _

_ “We’re equipping a mining expedition.” She stepped just an inch closer, crowding him. “Papa’s sunk his whole fortune into it, but if it succeeds… well, it will be on the strength of your blades, I’m sure.”  _

_ He didn’t step away, she knew he wouldn’t. But it was enough of a distraction to tear his eyes from his father back to her. Enough time for the rest of the documents to disappear off the counter. The suspicious look hadn’t faded completely, but there was a hint of smile around his brown beard. “Well, then you’ll succeed.” He declared simply.  _

_ Maria wished she had that much conviction in anything, let alone anything she actually did.  _

_ “I look forward to working with you, then.” She grinned, side stepping him easily. Their shoulders brushed as she slipped past. Bea was still blushing, but looking slightly more triumphant as she fell into place at her side and they vanished out the open door.  _

_ “Lika is a ridiculous name.” Bea pointed out as they rounded the corner. “What were you thinking?”  _

_ “I could ask you the same thing.” Maria slipped her elbow through Bea’s, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Caught stealing? Shameful.”  _

_ Bea made a noise of disgust. “Like I was going to steal that piece of nugshit. Ugly as an old deshyr’s ballsack.”  _

_ Maria laughed, but Bea was already digging in her jacket pocket, pulling out a shiny gold disk and waving it in the air triumphantly. “This was too pretty to be in that sexist bastards shop.”  _

_ She plucked it deftly from Bea’s fist and examined it closely. It was some sort of compact with a design plucked out in red crystals on its front, creating a looping image of a phoenix with its wings spread wide. “I stole it fair and square, Maria. Give it back.” Bea whined. Maria’s fingers found the latch on the compact and popped it open, exposing the reflective surface of the mirror to the light.  _

_ She expected to see her eyes, gray and laughing, reflecting the sun. But instead, she saw the looming figure of a wolf, six red eyes glowing, staring at her with an intent expression. She whipped around to stare over her shoulder, but saw nothing. The streets of Ostwick were empty behind her, morning mist clinging to the paving stones. Not, in fact, the way it had looked the first day she met Fynn. Instead, it was the way it had looked the last time she left it, stealing out at dawn to catch a boat to Haven…  _

_ “Maria.” _

_ She looked to her right again, meeting Beatrix’s face. Except it wasn’t the Beatrix who had stolen a pretty mirror from Fynn’s father, laughing and fresh faced. This woman was wrapped in a thick cloak, her eyes flinty sharp, chin lifted in determination. “Bea.” Maria responded, reaching out to grab her arm in breathless relief. She should feel angry, furious. Bea hadn’t responded to her letters, hadn’t shown her face in two damn years, but she was here and…  _

_ Bea’s eyes were sparking, green lights erupting in them, but she was clutching her arm right back. Her face was white with fear, knuckles tightening on Maria’s arm, nails digging into skin and drawing blood.  _

_ “You should never have went to Haven.” Beatrix whispered.  _

 

She didn’t wake up screaming very often anymore, but this was a close thing. It wasn’t the fear, or the memory of Bea’s sparking green eyes and white face, but the lightning sharp pain shooting from fingertips to elbow as if someone was trying to pull out all her veins from her skin. She gasped in rigid shock, her other hand automatically reaching for the searing burning pain, clasping the marked palm tightly. 

And like that, it was gone. A lingering memory of the pain still present, a ghost of soreness in her arm. Maria curled up tightly in the bunk she’d woken up in, waiting for it to come back, as it did sometimes. 

It took her about thirty minutes before she felt confident enough that the worst was over. By that time, she could see the first smears of pink outside the porthole window in her cabin. The boat rocked gently in the sea, almost enough to lull her back to sleep. Instead, she sat up and pulled her boots on, clambering out of the bunk and slinking to the door of the cabin, throwing it open.

Cole sat cross legged at the mast, a metal tin thermos in front of him. He smiled warmly up at her as she emerged, holding it out shyly. “Hello!” 

“Hello sweetheart.” She bent just a bit to place a chaste kiss on his unruly blonde mop. As she straightened he pressed the thermos into her hands. She cradled it gently against her aching palm, feeling the warmth bleed into her skin. 

“Coffee, from the galley.” He explained unnecessarily. “I’m sorry you had another nightmare.” 

“Me too.” She sighed wearily, opening the thermos and greedily inhaling the scent. “But this is perfect, Cole. Thank you.” 

“You didn’t answer Cassandra’s letter. There’s worry all over the page. You said you would yesterday.” Cole fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket, anxious and endearing all at once. “She misses you.” 

“I’ll answer her before we get to Kirkwall.” Maria promised. 

“You can’t think of the right thing to say to ease the worry. There isn’t anything that will.”

Maria knew that too. But she didn’t answer, because with Cole she usually didn’t have to. Instead, she joined him on the wooden planks and rested her head on his shoulder. Cole smiled down at his own hands and Maria watched the sun rise over the Waking Sea.

 

They pulled into Kirkwall’s harbor right around mid-day. Which, if Maria had to be honest, was damn near the worst time to pull into Kirkwall’s harbor. It was when the morning fishing boats came back, slinging their catch in piles on the docks. Even Maria, who liked fish, didn’t need to see all those glassy eyes and silent mouths moving. That was ignoring the smell. 

She very gently nudged a flopping fish back off the docks with the toe of her boot, watching it splash into the green water below. Then she stretched in the sun, eyeing the looming city above her. “My lady Inquisitor, where would you like the boys to take your luggage?” The captain mopped his brow with his hat. 

“Your worship!” 

The Inquisition scout appeared with a solid elbow to several sailors that were blocking her way. Her eyes were gleaming nervously. “Ambassador Montiliyet said that you would not be arriving until this evening, your worship. Nothing is ready, there was to be an escort here…” 

“I caught an earlier boat.” Maria grinned charmingly up at the human. “Ritts, right? How’s Kirkwall?” 

“Well, my lady. Well as it can be. The city is in a tizzy for the Viscount’s coronation. And your rumored arrival. Nobody has officially confirmed it, but it seems people assumed…” 

Of course they did. Varric’s book about the Inquisition had been published a month prior. By mutual agreement, and despite Hawke’s vicious protests, Varric hadn’t written anything about their relationship. Nothing, not a word. And, instead of dimming the rumors, it had inflamed them. Maria had been confused until she’d finally grabbed a moment to make it through the first three chapters. 

It was  _ laughably _ obvious that the author was in love with Inquisitor Cadash. Varric was nowhere near as good at keeping his feelings hidden as he thought he was. 

“Where am I staying, Ritts? Hawke’s?” Maria asked, eyes fastening onto Cole as he drifted toward a knot of children surrounding a game of marbles. 

“Er, no.” Ritts shifted anxiously from foot to foot. “Messerre Hawke insisted that the Viscount take up his new residence before you got here, milady. She said she wanted to actually sleep the night before the coronation.” 

Ritts smiled wolfishly. Maria returned it with a matching smirk of her own. “Right then, I guess you’ve got to have your boys lug those cases the whole way to Viscount’s keep, Captain. I’ll leave instructions for them.” 

“Y...yes, milady.” The captain was blushing furiously in the sunlight, cheeks red. “As you wish.”

 

Walking in a city with Cole was always one of Maria’s favorite adventures. By the time they were climbing the Viscount’s Keep stairs, Cole had managed to accumulated a broken guitar, three apples, and a letter he claimed he needed to deliver for a girl with sad eyes. Maria appropriated one of the apples, nibbling on it as she waited for Cole to tear his eyes away from the columns rising above them. “They are very large, but the dwarves built them.” He mumbled. 

“Probably compensating.” She guessed, leaning against one of the columns herself. “Most dwarves I know are.” 

“Not all of them.” 

“True.” Maria mused, sinking her teeth into the apple again. From behind them, she could hear running footsteps. A bright burst of laughter that was different and still achingly familiar before a small shape collided with Cole at the foot of the steps, her skinny arms wrapping around his waist and her head buried in his abdomen. 

“Cole!” Sabina’s green eyes sparkled in the afternoon light as she looked up, a broad grin stretching her pixie like features. “Vos autem mane! Where is amita Maria?” 

“Hello Bean.” Maria called from her spot in the shade of the column. In a moment, the child had slammed into her. Maria smelled sea salt in Sabina’s wild curls, which nearly engulfed her face and Maria’s. Maria realized with a start the sturdy little seven year old was nearly as tall as she was. 

“Did you bring presents?” Sabina asked pertly. 

“Have you been getting into trouble?” Maria winked at the child. Sabina’s grin turned wicked. 

“Sabina!” A woman called shrilly from the steps. “De his gradibus mos incidere vos et conteram vobis aliquando collo, pueri!”

“Mama, it’s Cole and amita Maria!” Sabina sang, dancing away and back into the bright sunlight. In only a moment, Varania was beside her. 

“I see, Sabina.” Varania sighed, shifting the chubby toddler on her hip. She smiled gently at Cole before turning her piercing gaze onto Maria. “You are not to be here until this evening.” 

“I’m beginning to feel a little unwelcome.” Maria huffed. “I found an earlier ship.” 

“Despite that, you did not beat Josephine’s missive here. Her letter was squawking that you refused to sit for your final dress fitting. I am to make sure your dress actually fits you before you appear in public.” Varania continued on, as serene as she possibly could be. Maria ignored her, reaching her arms out for the child on her hip. The boy had his mother’s dark hair, but those were his father’s emerald eyes staring at her sleepily. Instead of accepting her invitation, the little boy buried his face in Varania’s tunic with a whimper. 

“He’s tired.” Varania excused. “No hello, Eli? None for your godmother?” 

“He needs a nap.” Sabina complained. “Varric said we could play in the gardens, but Eli is tired and we have to go home. Papa said he’ll bring me back tomorrow.” 

That cheered Maria up considerably. “Thom’s here?” 

“He is still up at the keep assisting the Guard Captain and Fenris.” Varania’s smile, sad and gentle, rested on her daughter’s curly head. “There is much to do. He said he will stay until he must leave to go to your Exalted Council.” 

Maria scoffed. “There’s no reason for him to go the whole way to Orlais for that debacle. I barely want to go. He should relax, here. With you and Bean.” 

“It would be a poor way to repay you, to sit on our thumbs here while you dance with the wolves who wish to feast on your bones.” Varania muttered darkly. 

“The worst threat to my life in Orlais is boredom.” Maria rocked back on her heels, shrugging. “You should keep him here.” 

“I won’t.” 

Stubborn as a damn mule. Maria shook her head, making eye contact with Sabina instead. The child was shifting anxiously from one foot to another, looking at the people milling around before them. “Have it your way. I’ll see you tonight, fledgling.” 

The little boy cocked his head, peering out at her from behind Varania’s blouse. Maria caught sight of a smile almost as wicked and playful as his mother’s. 

Varania shook her head, reaching for Sabina’s hand. “Varric and Reyna have been locked in a meeting almost all day. Perhaps your arrival will free them. My brother is becoming quickly impatient.” 

Maria did not doubt that for a moment. 

 

“I do not know why I must be present for this.” 

It was easy to slip past all the guards, all in various states of harried frustration, and to follow the sound of increasingly louder and more frustrated conversation into what she assumed was the throne room. She nearly laughed as Fenris’s voice drifted into the hallway. 

“Blame Hawke.” Aveline declared. “She said the two of us should figure it out.” 

“I don’t understand why assigning seats is necessary. Are they schoolchildren?” Thom grumbled. 

Maria tilted her head to the side, watching as the three figures stared at pieces of paper tacked onto a wooden board. She meandered slowly into the certain of the room, looking up at the ceiling. There were frescoes painted up high, possibly of the founding of Kirkwall. It reminded her of the ones Solas had painted in the rotunda before his vanishing act. 

“Have we considered allowing Merrill to do this?” Aveline asked in frustration. 

“Well, it certainly is an idea. Somehow I feel as if it would end with half of them in the harbor.” Thom chuckled. 

“You say that as if it is a poor outcome.” Fenris growled. 

“The De Launcets are in a blood feud with who, again?” Thom asked. 

“The Trevelyans. I think.” Aveline stated uncertainly. 

“The LaFailes, actually.” Maria called out from her spot in the center of the room as she continued to examine the ceiling. “But they also owe at least half the Merchant’s Guild here money, so don’t sit them next to them either.”

She barely hid her smile as all three of the warriors jerked in surprise. She let her eyes drift down to meet theirs, raising an eyebrow. “Hello.” 

“Maker’s balls.” Thom laughed, shaking his head. “Should have known you’d show up when you damned pleased.” 

“You are not supposed to be here.” Aveline frowned severely, crossing her arms over her well armored chest. “There is a schedule, and…” 

“I know Varric didn’t tell anyone to send an honor guard to meet me.” 

“Ambassador Montiliyet and the nobles of Kirkwall…” Aveline glowered. Maria smiled charmingly and Fenris shook his head. 

“Well, Josie’s used to me wrecking all her well laid plans, at least.” Maria added breezily, spinning on her heel in a circle, expanding her arms to take in the room. “Nice place. Bit large.” 

Fenris had his eyes glued, not on her (or even her hand, as he sometimes did), but on the spot of carpet she was standing on. She opened her mouth to ask, but Cole mumbled behind her softly, almost in her ear so no one else could hear. “The blade goes in and comes out the other side and he picks her up. She’s so small, and she’s screaming. Blood runs cold.” 

Maria turned, meeting Cole’s eyes in bewilderment. “You’re standing where she was.” He whispered. “Broken wings. I didn’t tell her, I’ll never be able to tell her. But he did.” 

“Right.” Maria jarred herself free of her own fresh horror, stepping out of the spot that suddenly felt much colder than the rest of the room. This was enough to break Fenris free of whatever thought he’d been lost in and he lifted his eyes to hers, smiling wearily. 

“My friend.” He greeted. “It is good to see you.” 

“Like I’d miss it.” Maria winked, taking in the list of names behind the three figures. “Will you forgive me if I help, Aveline?” 

“I’ll consider it.” The woman rubbed at her temple. “Let’s get you up to Varric’s rooms, first. I don’t want the nobles to catch wind you’re here or I won’t be able to get anything done with the gawking.” 

“That’s why I’m here. Take the heat off of Varric, at least.” 

“Are you well?” Thom asked slowly, sweeping his gaze over her. “You look… tired.” 

“Of course I’m fine.” The lie was so easy, but she didn’t miss the gaze that flicked from Thom to Cole over her head. “I’ll take that with me and sketch out some ideas for you two for seating charts. Hawke will be so impressed.”

Fenris nearly ripped the paper in his hurry to hand it to her. And the critical looks they had all shot her as she stood in front of them faded. 


	2. The Official Mistress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Maria are reunited. Bran's an ass. Fenris has little patience for wallowing.

Varric considered taking a swan dive off the keep if he didn’t get out of the damned meeting in five minutes. The room was stuffy and stale, he’d run out of ale ages ago, and he was nearly certain Hawke was sleeping with her eyes open. If his legs were longer, he’d kick her chair just to watch her fall out of it. 

He didn’t even know what the nobles were discussing anymore. They were supposed to be figuring out how to raise funds to re-equip the city guard. Unfortunately, it looked like it would just be damn easier to pulls some strings and pay for it himself. 

He was still pondering how best to bring this damned gathering to an end when the door burst open, hinges protesting noisily. Hawke startled awake in her chair, blearily staring at the slobbering mountain of fur that had barged in, knocking one lord off his ass and onto the floor before jumping up at the table and barking at Hawke. 

“Lucia, down.” Hawke reprimanded mildly. The mabari barked again, tongue lolling happily from the corner of her mouth. The dog jumped off the table, before attempting to crawl under it to get to Hawke. It would have worked, if the mabari wasn’t massive. The dog shook the whole table, sending glasses and papers flying. Hawke laughed, shaking her head as she stood.

“Messere Hawke, your hound…” One of the counts began. 

“Isn’t she sweet?” Hawke cooed in delight. Varric snorted and Hawke’s mischievous blue eyes flicked to him. “She must be hungry. You know, I watched a mabari eat a man once.” 

The count’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click and Varric pushed himself away from the table. “Well, that’s it for today then.” He stated firmly. “Let’s get your maneater her meal, Hawke.” 

 

Unfortunately, Bran ambushed them as soon as they emerged. He looked particularly harassed and his beady eyes fixed on Hawke immediately. “I told you I needed the seating chart by this afternoon! How am I supposed to…” 

Hawke sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Bran, I don’t give a damn if they stand. We’ve got real problems, you know.” 

Bran, as he always did when he was talking to Hawke, began to turn an interesting shade of red. He looked apoplectic and directed his bulging gaze down at Varric. “Bran, you need to relax. You’re going to have a stroke.” Varric advised. 

“Stand! You’d ask the oldest and most respected nobility in Kirkwall to…” 

Hawke pushed past Bran without another word, beaming at the tanned elf mounting the steps. “Sending Lucia to fetch me? You’ve certainly earned a reward, Ser.” Hawke purred, slinging her arms around Fenris’s neck. 

Fenris raised an eyebrow, but even he looked pleased with himself. “It was not my idea, sadly. I have finished your blasted chart.” 

“No! Really?” Hawke’s smile broadened as she took the proffered papers from Fenris, flipping through them with a relish before turning on her heel and damn near throwing them at Bran. “Look, done.” 

“You… allowed your… husband to do this?” Bran tried, to his credit, to keep his tone carefully neutral. “With respect, I hardly think Ser Hawke is qualified…” 

Hawke’s smile took on a sharp edge as Bran looked down at the pages. He read them, slowly, his brow furrowing. “Well, they appear fine…” 

“I believe all feuds, marriages, trade deals, and estate boundaries have been taken into account.” Fenris said dryly. “Although, it will most likely change twice more in two days.” 

“I did not expect such a grasp of the nuances from…from...” Bran stammered. 

“An elf?” Varric supplied helpfully. “Or the Champion of Kirkwall’s husband?” 

“I think you should thank him.” Hawke tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear with deceptive casualness. “Don’t you think he should, Varric?” 

“A public thank you.” Varric decreed. “Perhaps a toast to his effort during dinner this evening?” 

“That is not necessary.” Fenris shook his head in distaste. “Perhaps Bran has something useful to accomplish. Elsewhere.” 

Bran took the dismissal as the merciful escape opportunity it was. Hawke glared after him, then tipped her chin to look back up at Fenris. “Thank you, amatus. You should have let us torture him some more, though.” 

“I did not actually complete the seating charts.” Fenris admitted. “I had assistance.” 

It clicked with Varric immediately, even as he saw the wheels of Hawke’s mind turning. A broad grin split his face. “Where is she?” 

“Aveline is hiding her in your quarters, she did not wish to have the nobles linger in curiosity. Perhaps one of the few things Cadash and Aveline both agreed upon.” Fenris added with a smirk. 

Varric nearly rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t have been surprised that both women treated each other with barely disguised suspicion under a veneer of casual politeness. Despite leaving the Carta behind, Maria certainly hadn’t let go of old habits that rose Aveline’s hackles. Refusing to leave doors locked, meddling and poking her nose everywhere, breaking into buildings through what she charmingly called ‘alternative entrances’ rather than going through the front… It was enough to set Aveline’s teeth on edge. It reminded Varric of Aveline’s initial relationship with Isabela. He half expected to find out one morning that Aveline had tossed the Inquisitor into a cell to sober up. On Maria’s side… well, trusting authority rather went against her nature. Even when she was an authority all on her own now. Which was, Varric thought, the only reason Aveline hadn’t arrested her. 

His stomach jumped nervously, reminding him that he hadn’t seen Maria since he’d sent  _ that _ letter. He’d slipped it at the end, after detailing the whole sorry mess he’d gotten himself into with Viscount’s crown. He’d spent the day hiding from everyone in Hawke’s garden watching the kids play and he’d thought of a girl with light red hair and gray eyes, smaller than the two hellions that ran the Hawke household ragged, but still… 

One line.  _ So I think we should have a baby before our lives go to shit again. _

He regretted it nearly as soon as he sent it, but it was too late to take it back, so he waited on tetherhooks for a rather firm response to his momentary lapse in sanity. Instead, as she usually did, she shocked him with an almost resounding yes, let’s do it. 

That was as full of enticing possibilities and rather complicated problems as a no would have been. 

 

The Viscount’s rooms existed in a perpetual state of controlled chaos, mostly because Varric had stepped into the first time and immediately felt like he’d walked into a tomb. Nobody had ever bothered to remove the items of the last Viscount, and it was littered with personal mementos, the other man’s clothes, and family letters. 

He’d retreated to Hawke’s immediately and hired a crew to do something with it. Of course, it wasn’t done yet. The room had been scoured, furniture disposed of, and walls properly painted, but he still lacked most of his own furniture and there were some worrying structural issues that needed fixed. The only room in his quarters close to finished was the bedroom, but it was still separated from the sitting room by nothing more than a flimsy curtain. 

The entire space was strangely empty when he opened the door. Aveline must have been damn serious about hiding Maria if she scattered an entire dwarven work crew with nothing but threats and her glare. Chest sat proudly in the center of the room, one flung open and rummaged through. There was a familiar looking jacket arm hung forlornly over the side. The curtain hiding his bed from the workers had been wrenched open, revealing the bed and a pitcher of water on a nightstand. 

He heard a murmur of voices from the balcony, a sultry laugh. 

Varric followed it like a fish on a hook, peering around the open door. Rainier leaned back against the railing, shaking his head in amusement as Maria gestured grandly from her precarious perch beside him, mouth moving quickly.. “So, Sera kicks the back of the chair, and…” Her eyes flicked to the movement at the door and she stopped suddenly. “Varric!” 

Her eyes sparkled with joy and she flung herself from the railing and into his arms. He barely had time to laugh, to inhale her sweet cinnamon scent, to take in the warm weight of her in his arms before her fingers slid into his hair, encased in smooth buttery leather and her lips pressed against his demandingly. 

Varric, helplessly, followed her lead like he usually did, breathless with the sheer relief that she was back. In one piece, despite herself. She nipped playfully at his bottom lip and he groaned, hands fisting into the cloth at her waist and tugging her closer. 

“Maker’s balls.” Thom muttered, casting his eyes down hastily. “At least wait until I take my leave.” 

“Bye Thom.” Maria sighed against his lips as she pulled away briefly. He could feel her heartbeat somewhere against his own, as if it was his own. Varric barely registered Rainier’s hasty retreat as he lifted Maria off her feet and brought her lips jealousy back to his. 

“Sweet Andraste, I’ve missed you.” He whispered hoarsely as she wrapped her legs against his waist. He’d missed her like a lyrium addict, desperate for his next hit. Like a drunk reaching for his next cup with shaking fingers. But desire made his fingers more deft, not less as he tugged the laces on her shirt open in one smooth tug, letting his lips trace down her jaw and hover over her hammering pulse. “We should talk, Princess.” 

Before she could answer, he laved his tongue over that trembling pulse point and listened with delight to that little whimper that escaped her throat. “Later.” She moaned, tugging his hair from the tie. “I need you.” 

He dropped her onto the low bed, agreeing wholeheartedly that coaxing every little moan and delighted gasp out of her was far more important than talking. Her laughter was breathless and pleased as she undid the laces at her breeches. Those beautiful gray eyes were blown as dark as the sky before a storm, her lips curved wickedly in anticipation.  

“Are you still drinking the tea?” He asked, tamping down the nervousness as he looked down over her. 

Something flashed through her eyes so quickly, he didn’t know if he’d seen enough of it to give it a name. Fear, maybe. But her smile resolutely stayed in place, warm and beckoning. “No. Is that going to be a problem, Tethras?” 

Blood was pooling in places that made it hard to think clearly, because that statement shouldn’t have caused a larger, possessive surge of lust to crash over him. “We’re doing this? We’re actually doing this?” He questioned instead, watching as she slowly rolled her hips, peeling the fabric away from her creamy thighs. 

“Yes.” She answered with smug determination. “We are.” 

Helplessly, as always, Varric followed. 

 

Varric let his fingers trail gently over the curve of her hip, up her abdomen. It was a path he knew well. He’d been traveling it for over two years, and he never tired of it. There was the scar from the mine shaft she’d fallen down, the one that saved her life in Haven. Another one from a Venatori’s spell that had burned through her armor up closer to her chest. On her hip was a healed gash from the time a dragon had nearly knocked her off a damn cliff. 

Being Inquisitor had certainly not been a safe gig until recently. With that thought, he let his gaze drift surreptitiously to the green mark glowing in her right palm and the spiraling lines of magic that glowed through her alabaster skin like veins. They came to her elbow before stopping, flickering faintly with every breath she drew, every beat of her heart. Once, he thought mournfully, it had stopped at her wrist. 

“Stop staring.” She muttered sleepily, shifting against him and pressing her bare back more insistently against his chest. 

“I’m not staring.” He lied, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. She made a noise that indicated she wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t turn to face him. “I’m admiring you. Hard not to do, honestly. How does anyone in Skyhold get anything done with you wondering around looking so tempting?” 

That made her smile, he could see it from the corner of his eye. He let his hand dip gently to the curve of her stomach, gently tracing from her sternum to her navel. He didn’t know whether he felt giddy or sick. “You know, it is  _ highly _ unlikely even you’re that potent, Varric, to do it in one shot.” She teased. 

“You should discuss that with Isabela. She tried to get me named a paragon of manliness.” He whispered, nuzzling into the hollow of her ear. “Still, it’s happening. We’re going to… Maker, we’re insane.” 

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

He laughed, letting his arms tighten around her. She hummed contently. “Besides.” She continued sleepily. “Hawke and Fenris have kept fledgling alive. How difficult could it possibly be?” 

He chuckled and nipped at the lobe her her ear. “I’m telling them you said that.” 

Before she could respond, Varric heard a timid voice from outside the curtain. “Hello? Help?”

“Hey kid.” Varric greeted with a groan, pulling away from Maria as she shifted, grabbing the sheet. “Give us a minute, Cole.” 

“I was helping a guardsman with creaky elbows, so I picked the locks to get the oil. Aveline is angry. I tried to talk about copper marigolds and that made her angrier.” 

Maria twisted the sheet around her as she stood, shaking her head so that her loose red hair bounced and gleamed in the lantern light. She grinned at him roguishly over her shoulder. “Well, I think we did alright parenting Cole at least, hm?” 

 

“How would you like to be announced for dinner, my lady Inquisitor?” Bran hovered at Maria’s elbow as she pulled the long satin gloves up her arm. It didn’t quite hide the glowing mark through the thin material, the light pulsing beneath the satin. Hawke, perched on the edge of Maria’s trunk with Fledgling balanced on her knee, was glaring daggers at the pulsing mark. 

“Balls, did Josie not send that?” Maria tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear. “She has a list of titles and how they’re supposed to be used. I’ve not got a clue, really.” 

“Ambassador Montiliyet did send it, but she did not mention if you wished your Free Marches titles to come before or after the others. Custom dictates…” 

“Free Marches titles?” Maria echoed, perplexed, shooting Varric a look. “Did you ennoble me while I wasn’t paying attention?” 

“Not yet.” Varric shrugged easily. Hawke snorted behind her hand. 

“The City-State of Kirkwall has a traditional place for the official mistress of the Viscount. Since Master Tethras has not been officially crowned, your current title is Official Mistress of the Viscount-elect.” Bran continued sanctimoniously, ignoring the rather dangerous narrowing of Maria’s eyes. Hawke had lifted her hand to her mouth, blue eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Tradition dictates that Kirkwall titles take precedence within Kirkwall.” 

“This is not a real thing.” Maria declared, tossing back her head. “If this was a real thing, Josie most certainly would have warned me.” 

“It has fallen into disuse. Viscount Threnhold had many mistresses and never bestowed upon any of them the title of official mistress. None of the other Viscounts openly kept one.”

“Kept.” Maria repeated softly. Varric winced, it was the same tone of voice she’d used on the the Grand Duchess before exposing her crimes to the world. 

“...I apologize, my lady Inquisitor. I thought your relationship was an official one.” Bran seemed to finally realize the trouble he stepped in, taking a reflexive step away from the furious dwarf. Somehow, the finery she’d found herself in only seemed to make her more frightening.

“Did you know about this?” Varric found himself suddenly on the wrong side of those burning gray eyes. 

“Not even a little bit. I swear.” Varric protested, holding his hands out in his defense. “Tell him to hang it if you want.” 

“I was only thinking, my lady, any children from your relationship would have rights if you are the recognized mistress.” Bran pleaded. “They would follow any children from a legitimate marriage…” 

“Bran, I’m going to save your life and tell you to leave. Now.” Hawke stated calmly. Maria’s face had flushed nearly the same color as her hair, her silk clad fists curling into themselves. 

“But I require an answer…” Bran tugged at the collar of his shirt, eyes swinging between all of them helplessly. The only one unaffected by the tension, Fledgling himself, babbled in delight as he tugged on his mother’s necklace. 

“I’m not going.” Maria seethed, turning on her heel. “And you can fuck off.” 

In several long strides, Maria stalked out to the balcony, slamming the door behind her. Varric grimaced after her before turning an accusing stare at Bran. “Well, now you can tell them the Viscount’s going to be late to this damn event.” 

“You can’t be late, Varric.” Hawke reminded him brightly. “It’s your party. But, the Champion of Kirkwall isn’t attending without the Viscount or the Inquisitor. If you’d be so kind to let my husband know, Bran?” Hawke’s smile was full of threat. Bran, mercifully, finally took the hint and nearly ran out of the room. Hawke frowned at the balcony door, then at Varric. 

“You know, you could just marry each other if this is going to be a problem.” Hawke whispered. 

“Hawke, when is my love life ever that simple?” Varric muttered. 

“Is anyone  _ seriously _ going to stop the Viscount of Kirkwall from marrying the Inquisitor?” She asked, standing impatiently and tapping her foot on the ground.

No, at this point nobody probably could. In fact, several people from the guild had asked in extremely roundabout ways when they could expect a wedding. And yet… as a member of the guild, Varric would still have to go to them and ask for their permission to marry  _ anyone _ . And that would be humiliating, although he’d take it on the nose for Maria. 

He wouldn’t subject her to a public debate about her background or social status. The guild only welcomed her because there was more fear of pissing off the Inquisition than any real desire to include a Carta dwarf in the gaudy sphere of the Merchant’s Guild. Inquisitor Cadash really couldn’t do anything to please them, behind their hands they sneered at the way she dressed, her filthy mouth, even the sensuous way she moved across a room. 

Maria didn’t complain because Maria never complained, she just soldiered on. Magic hand, massive demons, Orlesian politics, snobby deshyrs, they were all the same to her.

Maker, and Varric loved her for it. 

“What has happened?” Fenris had appeared in the doorway, sweeping the room with a suspicious glare. 

“Long story short, Maria’s got a new title she doesn’t like very much. Did you know there’s a special place in Kirkwall for a Viscount’s Mistress?” Hawke asked as Fledgling squirmed in her arms, his chubby fists reaching for Fenris. Fenris plucked the child from Hawke’s arms, scowling in displeasure. 

“She is the Viscount’s Mistress. People will talk regardless of how they announce her.” Fenris stated evenly. 

“Fenris, it’s a bit patronizing.” Hawke’s gleamed with understated sympathy. “Bran just basically called her a kept woman.” 

“Bran is an ass and an imbecile.” 

“Fenris, when Eli starts repeating those words, I’m blaming you.” Hawke crossed her arms over her chest in marked disapproval. Fenris merely sighed, eyes fixing on the door before he crossed the room and threw open the balcony door. 

“You are his mistress.” Fenris declared bluntly out the open door. “And people will say it regardless. You are being childish to sit here as if it can be ignored.”

Maria said something that was lost in the wind. It sounded suspiciously like “Fuck you, Fenris.” Hawke sighed. 

“Do you think the nobles of Kirkwall do not laugh at the Champion’s elven lover? The runaway slave?” Fenris asked. “And yet, I am here. I would expect the Herald of Andraste to be braver. Are you not here to support Varric?” 

This time, there was no mistaking the blistering swear words coming from the balcony. Fenris withstood it easily until Maria pushed past him, back into the room, ears still red but remarkably more composed. She paused at the desk, grabbing the strand of pearls she’d laid there. 

“Tell Bran he can fucking do whatever he wants.” She muttered darkly.

“Maria, you don’t have to.” Varric approached her gently, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Maria took a deep breath, letting it out in a great exhale before she looked at him. Tenderly, she reached up and stroked his cheek, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Not right now. But it might. Someday soon.” She whispered against his skin. “And I’m here for you, I promised I would be.” 

“The only thing you promised was that you’d smuggle me out if I changed my mind.” Varric pointed out. 

“Well, that’s still an option.” 

She smiled, brilliant and somewhat sad. Varric took her hand in his, moving it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “Let the show commence, Princess.” 


	3. The Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria Cadash is bad at handling her emotions. Cole likes to help.

If Leliana changed her damn cipher one more time, Maria was going to scream. She had the spinning wheel with the letters on it laid out on Varric’s desk, relearning what letters went where. It felt like she just got it memorized every time the fool woman decided to change it.

She finally transcribed out the last letter, taking a moment to let her eyes sweep over the message in whole. It was the same thing she’d been hearing for months, but with the deadline looming ever closer. Now, Leliana had an actual date - midsummer. Two months until an Exalted Council convened to determine the fate of her Inquisition. 

Perhaps her fate as well, she thought darkly, holding the edge of the paper to the candle perched nearby. It caught immediately, the edges curling and blackening as flames raced up Leliana’s letters. 

The King of Ferelden wanted the Inquisition disbanded. If he had his way, he’d probably light the Inquisitor’s pyre himself to get her out of the way. Truthfully, she had no one to blame but herself. She knew the price of arguing with those in power. She  _ knew _ what happened when you threatened the family of a man with all the aces in his pockets. 

She let the flame lick her fingertips before she dropped it into the metal basin, watched the letter crumble to ash. When you played with fire, you got burned. 

And yet, fiercely, she didn’t regret calling that gigantic ass out. Not for a damn moment. No matter what happened next, she wouldn’t cower before Alistair Theirin and she wouldn’t let Orlais slip a golden leash around her throat. 

She stretched leisurely in the rickety wooden chair, sighing as she dropped her head back. The curtain hiding Varric’s bed fluttered softly in the spring breeze, she could just make out Varric’s arm hanging over the edge of wooden frame.

“A return message, ma’am?” The Inquisition scout asked quietly. 

“No. I’m sure Josie will write back to make arrangements.” Maria ran her fingers through her tousled hair. “Anything else?” 

“The Siren’s Revenge docked at Ostwick two days ago, ma’am. Your sister slipped on board and the ship sailed toward Rivain.” The scout continued neutrally. “Charter stated you like to be kept aware.” 

“She’s right, thank you.” Maria stood from her chair. The scout shifted anxiously. 

“Should I… try to get a letter to her?” The girl asked, wide eyed and sincere. 

“No.” Maria shook her head. “That’s unnecessary.” 

“As you wish, your worship.”

With that, the girl ducked her head respectfully and vanished in seconds like a puff of smoke. Maria turned her attention back to the reports Cullen had sent. She could always tell which ones he’d been working on late at night, his handwriting growing steadily more atrocious as the hours wore on. There was some sort of territorial dispute in Ghislain that had obviously been driving Cullen to distraction in the early hours of the morning, judging by his chicken scratch. She kicked her heels onto the desk, slouching into the chair to try and decipher it. 

She’d been at it for nearly a half hour when she heard the cough from the doorway. She looked up, meeting the eyes of another dwarf lingering in the threshold. “Apologies, Master Tethras had a late night. He’s not quite recovered.” She said pleasantly, dismissively letting her eyes fall back to the page.

“I have the furniture that was ordered, Inquisitor.” The man said politely and firmly. “It was arranged that I’d drop it off this morning.” 

If he would have been rude, she’d have sent him packing. Unfortunately, politeness had to be rewarded. She swung her legs from the desk, sweeping her papers into a smaller locked chest before she met the man’s eyes again. There was something… strangely familiar about his face. Around the eyes, she thought. 

“Well, if it was arranged.” She stated simply. “I’ll wake him.” 

“He’ll probably wake up on his own once we start our banging.” The dwarf muttered, his eyes following her movements. “I have to say, I heard that you were the Inquisitor. Didn’t believe it though, thought I’d come up here and see someone else.” 

This caused her to stiffen, to sweep her eyes over the man once more. About average height for a dwarf. Stocky, but not in the way of a smith. A carpenter, most likely, since he was delivering furniture. His beard was a shade darker than the hair on his head, both beginning to get sprinkled with gray. Altogether, unassuming. “Have we met?” She asked bluntly. 

“Not in so many words, no.” The man did smile and...yes, she could almost see it. A younger boy, beard scraggly with youth. “You weren’t the type to introduce yourself or be introduced then. But the world’s gone to the nugs and nothing makes any bleedin’ sense now, so it may as well be you at the top of the heap.” 

Well, she couldn’t argue with that statement. “You don’t look like Carta, so I assume I probably stole something from you?” 

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Your sister did, but I was told that was a right of passage for the apprentices in Ostwick. Weren’t a local until the youngest Cadash picked you clean. They used to call her…” 

_ Magpie.  _

That was what Fynn had dubbed her and it had stuck for years and years, long after Hercinia and Fynn’s death. The other dwarf was still talking, but Maria had placed him. She could picture him now, nearly beardless, at Fynn’s elbow while the tension grew thicker and thicker. She could see Beatrix over his shoulder, beaming with pride and a joyful kind of malice, the cards spread out over the table as she ignored Fynn’s glower.

“You were at the card game.” Maria interrupted. “The one… the one where I pocketed the deed to Fynn’s shop.” 

“Never saw anyone play Wicked Grace like you did that night, not before or since.” The dwarf’s eyes were gleaming. “Ancestors, I’d bet half of us fancied ourselves in love with you by the time you left.” 

Fynn had most decidedly not been. He’d been fucking furious. And she’d been…

Thrilled. Immensely pleased with her own cleverness, vain about the shine of her hair and the way eyes lingered on her everywhere she went. Young and wicked, in it for profit and fun, screwing over the pretentious deshyr and showing off in front of her baby sister. 

Why, she thought bleakly, had it seemed so very easy then? 

“He’d have been proud of you. Fynn Dunhark was a good man, and he’d have been pleased to see what you’ve done.” The dwarf coughed awkwardly into his fist. “I’ll go get the crew, by your leave.” 

“Of course.” Maria responded tonelessly, watching as the man shuffled out of the room. She’d forgotten to ask his name, couldn’t remember it now for the life of her. 

Fynn’s father had told him to keep her as his mistress and he’d punched the man. Now, they announced she was Varric’s mistress as she went into dinner. Fynn wouldn’t be proud of that.

She stayed rooted to the spot for a moment more before spinning on her heel, ducking into the curtained bedchamber.

“Varric..” She whispered softly, bending over the bed. “Time to get up.” 

Varric groaned, buried himself farther into the mattress. The arm that had been hanging off the bed reached for her, ensnaring her waist and pulling her closer. She thought she heard him mumble something that sounded very much like “Come back to bed.” 

“You’re the one who arranged a furniture delivery this damned early.” She scolded, letting her fingers burrow into his blonde hair. The way the light hit it, she could nearly believe it was gold silk instead. And he was hers, all hers. The thought was enough to choke her and she bent down closer, pressed a searing kiss to his temple. 

“Princess?” He whispered gruffly, opening one honey colored eyes to examine her. “You alright?” 

“Yes.” She answered decisively. “Yes, I just… I need to get out. For an hour. I’ll be back, I promise.” 

“What is it?” Varric was pushing himself up off the mattress. “Maria, are you…” 

She silenced him with another kiss, this one to his warm lips. “Everything is fine, Varric.” She promised, slipping from his grasp. “Stop worrying.” 

“Right. That will be the day.” Varric joked weakly, smiling uncertainly at her. “Come back soon?” 

“I promise.” She whispered again, kissing him one last time before fleeing into the hallway. She was halfway down the steps when she very nearly ran into Aveline making her way up. 

“Where are you off to?” Aveline asked suspiciously as Maria danced around her in the narrow stairwell. 

“Taking a walk!” She fluttered her eyelashes innocently. 

“A walk? By yourself?” Aveline’s eyes narrowed and Maria felt the near hysterical urge to laugh building. 

“Aveline, I thought the city guard had the safety issue covered.” She declared waspishly as she continued to slip down the steps. “See you at lunch!” 

 

Cole found her several hours later, far past lunchtime. Maria had located a rather nice perch overlooking the harbor in lowtown, far enough away from the stench of fish to be pleasant. She could watch the boats sail in and out, the babble of voices behind her, mostly without being bothered. She’d gotten a few… odd second glances, but nobody yet had the courage to come up and ask if she was the actual Inquisitor, or just another red-headed dwarven wench. 

“Varric misses you.” Cole declared. “He thinks you’re angry at him, but I told him that you had a lot of thoughts.” 

“Isn’t that the truth.” Maria muttered. Cole was quiet, somber. He sat down beside her, drew his knees up to his chin. 

“I don’t understand, but I’m trying to.” Cole admitted softly. His pale eyes were gleaming with empathy. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed. You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

Maria Cadash loved things that were beyond her, and that was wrong. But she wasn’t even saying the words before Cole was shaking his head. “No. No.” He protested, taking her hand from her lap. “Varric loves you. You love Varric. It’s right. It doesn’t matter what you were born, it is what you are. What he is. Stones, soft. Quiet. Laughing, quick words darting. The curve of your smile, the way his hands rest on your waist. It is good, it’s real.” 

“I know, Cole.” Maria sighed, looking out over the horizon. 

“Fynn wouldn’t call you his mistress because it meant he’d have a wife. And he wouldn’t hurt you like that, wouldn’t let them shove you in the dark, wouldn’t hide the way he loved you.” Cole persisted. “Varric won’t hide it either. It’s in the book, every page says I love you.” 

“Did you read the book, Cole?” Maria’s curiosity was sparked, she pinned his pale eyes with her own. 

“No. I didn’t have to.” Cole said quietly. “It isn’t the same. The word is the same, but this isn’t’ the same.” 

She let that sit in the air between them, gazing down at the docks below. She thought she could just make out a smudge with the energy of a tornado, wild curls pulled up hastily atop her head. A large bear of a man followed in the tiny creatures wake. “Is that Thom and Sabina?” 

“Yes.” Cole smiled, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “She hears a very old song in the waves. She wants to follow it.” 

“Maybe when she’s older.” Maria couldn’t help the longing that colored her voice. “What would you think of me having one?”

“You already follow a song.” Cole responded, brows drawing together in confusion. “Quiet. Reaching high. And a beat in your hand not your own.” 

“A child, Cole.” Maria corrected. 

“Where would you get one?” He asked curiously. 

Maria should have known better than to even ask. 

 

She found Varric hiding in the keep’s library. Or, she supposed, his library now. She’d have to see if she could bring Dorian in to catalogue what was actually there. Besides, it would be pleasant to listen to him complaining about someone else’s literature instead of hers. He was at a desk overlooking the garden, his boots up on the desk, journal in one hand and pen in the other. Through the great plate glass windows, Maria could see Carver Hawke with a wooden sword, cheerfully allowing Fledgling to whack him repeatedly with his own while Merrill pulled weeds. Hawke and Fenris were sitting, heads close together, discussing something of importance most likely. 

Varric was smiling out over all of them. And he looked… right. Good. As if he had always been meant to be there, solid as a rock, carved from the very stone of the keep. Like a man who’d finally come home. 

He scratched his cheek with the end of the pen, looking back down into the journal. She could see his neat print spilling across the page. It would be one of those moods again, the times where he couldn’t stop writing. The voice in his head would spill out the pen until they were quiet again. She knew she shouldn’t interrupt him, could imagine how hard it had been to steal this small moment alone. 

Still, she didn’t want him to think she was angry for a moment longer. She slipped to the side of his desk, into his field of vision and leaned back against the edge of the wood, looking out over the tidy garden. Merrill looked up, shading her eyes with her hand. When she caught sight of Maria, she gave a cheerful wave. 

“Andraste’s ass.” She heard the chair legs rock precipitously, took it as a sign that Varric had looked up and noticed her. He was scowling at an ink blot, sent a disgruntled look up at her. 

“Sorry.” She couldn’t hide the laughter in her voice as she handed him several pieces of blotting paper, but she tried to look contrite. 

He didn’t take the paper, but put the journal down instead, pushing himself out of his chair. “You’re going to give me a heart attack someday.” 

“Now you sound like Aveline.” Maria deepened her voice and affected her very best imitation of a Ferelden accent. “Why are all these locks picked? What are you doing skulking around Hightown? Is this behavior entirely appropriate for…” 

“You’ll grow on her.” Varric reassured, eyes gleaming fondly. “Isabela did, and she’s much worse.” 

“Isabela had the generous excuse of being a pirate. I am a terrible disappointment as an Inquisitor for Aveline. Hardly the law and order candidate she would have supported.” Maria pushed herself up on the edge of the desk, perching on it and staring down at Varric’s honey eyes. He looked both exasperated and amused, the mixture endearing on his face. She let her thumb trace down his jaw fondly. “Don’t scowl. It would hardly be fair if I liked all your friends. You and Thom still barely get along.” 

“We do if we talk about jousting.” Varric grumbled, taking her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers. “There’s a desk for you upstairs now. I put all your things on it.” 

“You got me a desk? How romantic.” She teased, flashing a coy grin. 

“I didn’t, actually. I kinda would prefer you  _ not _ work in our bedroom. However, there is a desk there, and the furniture crew said it was yours. I’m assuming you made an impression. Should I be jealous?” 

“Varric, I always make an impression.” She purred, grabbing the edge of his tunic and pulling him closer, in between her thighs. She didn’t want to talk about what happened before Varric woke up, the dwarf who’d been the beardless boy. She didn’t want to bring up Fynn’s ghost the same way she hated to bring up Bianca’s. 

“I know you’re distracting me.” Varric let his hands settle on her thighs anyway. “Something spooked you. Tell me.” 

“Is that an official demand from the Viscount?” She teased lightheartedly. He huffed in exasperation, leaning forward and letting his head drop onto her shoulder. 

“Fine. Be mysterious and moody.” 

“I will.” She answered sincerely, letting her fingers tangle in his soft hair. “Time to run away is very quickly ticking down, Varric. Have you seen that crown they’re giving you? It’s atrocious.” 

“We both know I’ll never wear it.” He chuckled warmly, the noise muffled by her tunic. “Seriously. If this is too much, we can call it off. All of it.”

Maker, she wanted to. She wanted to haul him back to Skyhold by his ear and sit him right by the fireplace in the Great Hall, because that spot looked so achingly empty without him there. She  _ missed _ the way it had been, she missed Cassandra beating the dummies to death, she missed Fenris glowering at her equipment. The silence in her library was intolerable with Dorian gone. There was never a light flickering in the rotunda late, when she couldn’t sleep. Solas, for all his claims of loving the fade, hardly seemed to visit there either. 

Everyone had left to do what they needed to do. And Varric was home, where he was supposed to be. Safe and sound. 

“And give up this library? Are you mad?” She said instead, tightening her arms around him. “Think of what Dorian would say.” 

 

Sometimes when she woke up, she thought she was on fire. That’s what the pain in her arm felt like - flames licking her skin from fingertips to elbow, sometimes the whole way to her shoulder. It hadn’t always been like that, but it had grown, the pain more frequent after Corypheus. As if, she thought bitterly, the mark knew its purpose had been fulfilled. Now, all that was left was to consume the body it found itself embedded in. 

She woke up bathed in a cold sweat, untangled herself from Varric’s sheets while choking back pained gasps and biting down pathetic whimpers. He had a big day in the morning, but she’d just have to look pretty. He needed his sleep. 

She clenched her fist tighter as the flames shot up her bones again, bit her bottom lip so hard she could taste blood. The anchor cast an eerie green glow over the room, bathing everything in the same light that reminded her of demons, of the breach. She hated to see Varric’s room lit up like that. Hated to think of a pride demon emerging, laughing hollowly, from his bookcases. 

She barely managed to pull on her pants. The soreness between her legs should have been a pleasant reminder of a night making love, but she couldn’t derive any pleasure from it or the memories. Not like this, not with her hand doing it’s very best to bring her to her knees. 

Her heart hammered in her throat, she could hear the blood in her ears as she stumbled into the hallway. The space shifted, spun around her and she leaned back against the hard, cold stone wall. The grit caught the strands of her hair, pulled them, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the agony clawing up her skin… 

The choked sob from her throat didn’t even sound like it came from her. 

“I’m here.” Cole whispered, appearing from the shadows like an angel, recognizable in the dark only because of the shape of his hat. The green light made him look sickly pale, like a starving boy in the cells under the tower, like every child she couldn’t save and…

Cole pressed the back of his hand against her forehead, pale eyes meeting hers. He looked unspeakably, irrevocably sad and broken. “It’s alright Cole.” She reassured through the rolling pain. “It’s okay.” 

It wasn’t, not really. Maria Cadash was not an idiot by any means. The anchor was spreading, much quicker than anyone had anticipated it would. It was as if someone had pushed a boulder down a hill, the great thing picking up more and more momentum the farther it went, before finally… 

How far would the anchor spread before it killed her? She didn’t know, not really. Perhaps when it got to her heart, maybe even earlier. She’d been running on borrowed time since she stepped out of the first rift in Haven, and the time was running out for her too. 

She wanted so much still. She needed more time. She couldn’t leave Varric alone, not again. He needed someone to love. Needed a reason to go on. 

“Yes.” Cole whispered. “I understand. You won’t die. Not tonight.” 


	4. Stubborn Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is crowned Viscount.

_ She’ll lie and steal and cheat _ __   
_ And beg you from her knees _ __   
_ Make you think she means it this time _ __   
_ She’ll tear a hole in you, the one you can’t repair _ _   
_ __ But I still love her, I don’t really care

 

All Varric could think about were the deep violet circles under Maria’s bloodshot eyes. He knew he needed to be paying attention to whatever Bran was spewing, but he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her since she’d shown up. 

Of course she wasn’t there when he woke up. That, he thought hopelessly, would mean that she’d slept through a whole night. Varric knew better than to even dream. Instead, Varric had woken up to the decidedly less pleasant sight of Bran in his bedchamber. Maria slunk in an hour later, sipping on what he hoped was brandy in a flask, but what he strongly suspected was a potent stamina draught judging by the whiff he’d caught when she’d brushed up against him. He had only been slightly distracted by the saucy wink she shot him, not nearly enough to miss all the other signs. 

And how horrible and tragic that he would have  _ preferred _ she be drinking brandy at the crack of dawn. That put things in a pretty shitty perspective. 

Bran asked… something. Varric, lost in his thoughts, missed it entirely. He considered bluffing the answer, but when he met the human’s eyes, he realized that Bran hadn’t asked him anything. He was waiting for an answer from Maria. She’d also apparently missed the question, but hadn’t even realized it. Her eyes were fixed distantly out the window, the second layer of one of her card towers only half completed. Varric could almost believe she’d fallen asleep with her damn eyes open. Bran coughed, the sound too loud in the room. It pulled Maria back from wherever she’d gone, startling her enough to knock her steady hand askew and send the cards toppling from the desk. 

“Inquisitor…” Maker, he’d only ever heard her title said so exasperatingly by Cassandra, and she’d dragged the Seeker all over Thedas chasing adventure and bad decisions. Bran sounded as disapproving as the most ancient of Chantry mothers. 

That was the only part of the situation that was funny. The rest of his mind had frozen up to see deft, careful Maria making a movement to knock her sculptures over before she was ready to. Nothing could have been more worrying besides a message saying another Qunari fleet had run ashore and Isabela was in town. 

“Yes?” Maria asked irritably, scowling at the scattered cards, then piercing Bran with her steely stare. Bran faltered under it. 

“Will you need a girl to help you with your hair and dress?” Bran very nearly whispered.

“Unless you’re going to do up the blasted corset, Bran.” Maria replied mildly. “Varric is really only good at getting me out of it.”

Varric chuckled in spite of his worry as all the blood rushed up to Bran’s face. Maria beamed at his laughter, rocking back in her chair smugly as Bran threw up his hands and fled the room. Varric shook his head, scratched at his jaw thoughtfully. “Princess, you’re the only one that’s really good at making him leave.” 

“That’s me. The dread Inquisitor, bane of self-entitled pricks.” She toasted herself with the flask she’d forgotten on the desk, taking a sip and making a face as it went down. “Maker, these are horrid.” 

“Kirkwall doesn’t sweeten up their stamina potions for the common guard, Maria.” He sidled over to the desk, laying one of his hands over hers. “Aveline isn’t going to be happy you picked the lock on her supply cupboards. Again.” 

“The apothecaries at Skyhold aren’t sweetening up my stamina draughts.” Maria argued, ignoring his statement about Aveline entirely. Varric smirked. 

“They are too. With honey because it is frighteningly well known that the Inquisitor has a sweet tooth.” Varric twined his fingers with her free hand, squeezing them tightly. “Ready for a serious conversation?” 

“No.” Maria stated, downing the rest of the drought in the flask before she sat it heavily on the desk. She stared at it mournfully, frowning into the silence. Varric waited until her shoulders sank and she sighed, turning her gaze to his with a sad half-smile. “It’ll be fine, Varric.”

That was it then, every suspicion from every friend confirmed. The anchor had been growing worse, and it was affecting her regardless of how she carried on. Varric brought her hand to his lips, pressed his lips against her leather clad knuckles. “How bad is it?” He murmured, holding her eyes. 

“Bad.” She admitted softly. “But I’ll figure it out. Everybody worth their salt in Thedas is looking into it. I’m not… I won’t give up, Varric. I’ll solve it.” 

“We’ll solve it.” Varric corrected, squeezing her hand again. “We won’t give up.” 

The other corner of her mouth lifted and she squeezed his hand back. “Damn right we won’t.” She allowed herself a weak grin. “There’s no way I’m missing you trying to Viscount in this city. I’ve got money on another Kirkwall disaster in six months, tops. Right after this exalted council business wraps up.” 

“They set a date?” Varric leaned against the edge of the desk and rubbed a small circle in the center of Maria’s palm with his thumb. Her other hand, the one with the traitorous anchor embedded within it, lay flat and still against the desk. 

“Midsummer. The Bastard King of Cheese is determined to dismantle the Inquisition and Orlais… well, if they had their way I’d work for them.” She shrugged elegantly. “We’ll get through it. Josie and Leliana have it covered.” 

“Would it be so bad if you weren’t the Inquisitor any more?” Varric could feel his heart thump unevenly in his chest, a sweat breaking out in his own palms.

“I don’t know who I am anymore if I’m  _ not _ the Inquisitor.” Maria glared at the desk thoughtfully. “It’s not like I could go back to Ostwick. Bea might have me murdered if I set foot in the harbor, and I don’t exactly have any other job prospects.” 

“You’re overlooking a rather obvious solution.” Varric pointed out, sweeping his free arm across the room. “My extravagant Tevinter keep is your extravagant Tevinter keep.” 

“Varric, I…” Maria met his eyes again, then dropped them quickly. “I don’t think this is me either. I’d drive Aveline crazy, undoubtedly. And I’m not exactly Mistress of the Viscount material, even if you ignore the semi-heretical religious movement I started.” 

“Hate to break it to you, Princess.” Varric tried to keep his voice light. “Not entirely sure this place reflects my personality either.” 

“It does.” She sounded so certain, so solid. This time, she had no trouble holding his eyes and she squeezed his hand tightly, leaning up out of her chair to press a kiss to his jaw. “You look good here, Varric. You look like you’re home.” 

Varric heard Maria tell Cassandra once, with a careless shrug, that home was wherever Maria happened to land. Home was Haven, then. Of course, then she’d found Skyhold and settled in there. 

But the Nightmare demon had asked Maria, laughingly, where her home actually was because it saw into her head and saw the darkness there. The same way Varric could see into her now. 

He didn’t know how long exactly Maria Cadash had been homeless, but it was far before the breach ripped the sky open. 

 

_ And I don’t blame ya, dear _ __   
_ For running like you did, all these years  _ _   
_ __ I would do the same, you best believe

 

Varric listened to Bran drone on about protocol for so long, he was relatively certain he could recite off the most obscure Free Marches etiquette in his sleep. So, of course, he knew he had to walk into the Coronation ball with the damn crown on his head and Hawke on his arm. The benefit, Bran had stated, of being named Champion was that she had precedence over everyone except the Viscount. 

Hawke retorted sourly that the benefits of being Champion were almost as bad as the responsibilities. Maria hadn’t been able to disguise her laughter quickly enough to satisfy Bran, but since she was standing next to the particularly murderous looking husband of the Champion, Bran appeared loathe to actually doing anything about it. 

Varric hadn’t anticipated the fact that the crown was giving him a headache worthy of several large pints of ale. Nor had he accounted for Hawke’s ridiculously ruffled dress. Because of their height difference, Varric kept getting lost in the multitude layers of lace. Varric could almost believe Hawke had planned the whole thing as an elaborate prank on Bran, who was trying to figure out some way to make the whole thing work. In front of them, through the closed double doors to the ballroom, Varric heard an increasingly agitated ripple of voices. Behind them, a much more pleasant noise reverberated throughout the hallway. A child shrieking with joy and Maria’s laughter echoed around the columns. 

“What are they doing back there?” Hawke asked, twisting her neck to see past Bran as he attempted to finangle her dress into some kind of bustle.

“I don’t know, Waffles. Can’t see over your dress.” Hawke snickered in response. 

“Seducing your husband and stealing your son!” Maria called out cheerfully. “Don’t mind me!”

Varric sidestepped Hawke and her dress, catching sight of a scene that made him smile uncontrollably. Fenris, typically so ill at ease in his finery, had forgotten their situation long enough to dart from column to column with Fledgling squealing in front of him. They chased Maria from shadow to shadow, her own (much more sensible) dress hitched in one hand, shoes discarded forlornly in the middle of the carpet. Varania watched from the side, smiling and shaking her head in amusement as Fenris finally blocked Maria’s path long enough for the toddler to wrap his arms around her calf and cry out, “Got you!” 

“Well done, Eli.” Fenris smiled down at the little boy. “Now what will we do with her?” 

“She gets us!” Eli wheeled away, crying out “Hide!”

Within moments, the boy had stumbled into the ruffles of Hawke’s dress, crawling under one layer while giggling madly. Fenris smirked down at Maria. “I believe you are it, Inquisitor.” 

“If I try to get him out from under Hawke’s dress, I’m going to suffocate in all that lace. They’ll never find me. Cullen will have to send a search party.” 

“I  _ like _ this dress.” Hawke smoothed the bodice petulantly. “You’re jealous.” 

“A bit.” Maria admitted, leaning against one column to catch her breath. “I’d look like a feather duster, as would most women. But of course you look amazing.” 

“I thought you were seducing my husband?” Hawke purred flirtatiously. Maria grinned back wickedly and Fenris rolled his eyes. 

“I can’t seduce you both?” Maria questioned. Hawke dissolved into giggles.

“Daddy!” Eli called from within Hawke’s skirts. Obligingly, Fenris stepped forward and scooped Eli out from under Hawke’s skirts. Bran, finally, seemed to have found a way to tame the monstrosity into its elaborate bustle. Varric rubbed at his face. 

“Right.” He breathed out, fixed his eyes on the elegant lyrium scarred hand that gently pushed Eli’s hair back from his brown before handing him off to Varania. As if Fenris felt his gaze, the elf’s eyes met his. “What?” Fenris snapped.

“You’re  _ adorable. _ ” Maria answered immediately. “All paternal and doting.” 

Hawke snickered into the back of her hand. Fenris glared, unamused, down at Maria. “You are treading perilously close to being forced to walk in unescorted, Cadash.” 

“Maker forbid! How will I make it down all those steps by myself.” She widened her eyes innocently. “What if I trip?” 

“We are behind schedule!” Bran fretted. “You must escort Lady Hawke now. Then, after opening the dancing, remember to ask the dowager before proceeding down the line of precedence…” 

“Last chance, Varric.” Hawke’s eyes glimmered mischievously. “We can still run away and pretend it never happened.” 

“I think Bran would hunt me down.” Varric grimaced, lifting his arm too high to meet Hawke’s. “C’mon. Let’s get it over with.” 

“Come.” Varania whispered soothingly to Eli. “We will find Sabina and meet them at the bottom, yes?” 

With that, Bran threw the doors open. The light illuminated a crowd that was quickly becoming silent, turning to stare. Hawke bent down to whisper in his ear. “Does she know what you’re about to do?” She asked, her grin brilliant as diamonds out of the corner of his eye. 

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if she did.” He replied smoothly, taking the first step towards the door with Hawke drifting lazily beside him. Bran cleared his throat before announcing in a booming and pleased voice. 

“Presenting Lord Varric Tethras, Viscount of Kirkwall, escorting Lady Reyna Hawke of the Amell family, Champion of Kirkwall.” 

The applause was genuine, relief shining in every face as they paused, like there had been concern they absconded out the back. What other fool would they foist the job onto then, Varric wondered, making his way down the stairs with Hawke pulling her skirts out of her way. He saw Bean on Thom’s shoulders in the crowd, waving madly. He shot her a wink that made her beam in delight and whisper excitedly into Thom’s ear. 

They were nearly at the bottom before Bran’s voice boomed out a second time. “Accompanying the Viscount and Lady Hawke, Ser Fenris Hawke, former Lieutenant of the Inquisition, escorting Lady Maria Cadash…” 

The attention was pulled from Hawke and Varric immediately, like he knew it would be. The brief glimpse of the red-headed dwarf nearly hidden by Hawke and Fenris at the coronation wasn’t enough for the nobles. This, their first official glance at the Inquisitor, was far more exciting than the Viscount and Champion could hope to be. 

“Inquisitor of Thedas, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor First-Thaw of the Avvar, Comtesse of Ylenn, and Mistress of the Viscount.” Bran finished, sounding remarkably certain of the last one. Maria didn’t flinch, her unmarked hand resting lightly on Fenris’s forearm. He eyed her cautiously, but there weren’t many people who would have noticed the distinct flash of temper in her grey eyes before it was smouldered.

“So far, no bloodshed.” Hawke murmured quietly. 

“The night is young.” Varric pointed out. 

“Promises, promises.” Hawke sighed as Varric led her through the crowd, turning their backs on Maria and Fenris. The crowd parted around a glittering ballroom floor. “Don’t step on my feet, Varric.” 

“If I do, it was on purpose.” He assured her, “Watch the chest hair.” 

“Always.” Hawke sighed fondly, letting Varric spin her gently away from him. 

And this was what he’d agreed to with Bran before he knew about the bitter wine Maria was going to have to drink to be a part of his life now. He’d lead the Champion of Kirkwall around the dance floor to a stately and boring musical number, then he’d ask the ancient and most senior lady in Kirkwall to dance with him. She’d probably say no, because she used a walker for the Maker’s sake, then he’d have to go down the line and dance with each lady of note in order of social precedence under Bran’s watchful eye before he’d be allowed to actually dance with the only woman  _ worth _ dancing with. 

Varric had the same thought about that hundreds of lovestruck fools had before him. Fuck that.

At least dancing with Hawke was a exercise in hilarity. He couldn’t even look at her face without feeling like laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. It reminded him of the Champion’s ball, stealing Hawke away from a handsy nobleman and sharing an amused, skeptical look at the way people simpered over her in spite of the word apostate lingering on every tongue and Meredith’s cold glare. 

“Are you happy, Hawke?” 

She zeroed in on him in a moment, lips quirking up in surprise. She hadn’t been happy, not at the Champion’s ball. She’d been wrenched out of her grief over Leandra, over Broody, by the Qunari attack. She’d felt Isabela’s absence keenly in the months following her flight. 

“Happy as a lark.” She confirmed, bending slightly to kiss the top of his head. “Are you?” 

In a few days, Maria’s ship would sail away and she’d be ensconced back at Skyhold. Varric would stay in Kirkwall and watch her disappear over the horizon. His bed would smell like her for a week, then that too would fade. 

She’d mentioned in her letter, jokingly, splitting time between Kirkwall and Skyhold. If they had a baby, if the anchor didn’t continue to burn its way up her arm, if… 

If she was still the Inquisitor at all come midsummer. Maria would hold onto the Inquisition if she could, she was rightfully proud of it, but if she couldn’t… 

Even if she did… 

“Happy as a nug in mud.” Varric replied with a grin. “I’ve got a plan, you’ll see.” 

 

The song ended and Varric spun away from Hawke, sinking into a bow as Hawke fluttered into a perfectly appropriate curtsey. Varric saw the relief shining on Bran’s face like a beacon as the gathered nobles applauded politely. The musicians caught Varric’s eye, nervously, and Varric nodded. Hawke tucked her hand into his elbow and steered him in the direction of Fenris and Maria. 

Somehow, they’d already managed to grab a glass of wine each and Eli who was reaching for Hawke before Varric had taken several steps forward. Hawke surged forward thoughtlessly, stealing Eli from Fenris with a beaming smile. “Now mama is all yours, promise.” Hawke whispered conspiratorially to the toddler, angling herself towards Maria and plucking the wine glass from her hand. “Thank you!” 

Eli giggled and Maria rolled her eyes, struggling not to smile through a playful scowl. “You’re a beast. Who invites you to these parties?” 

“Inquisitor.” Varric smirked playfully, bowing and reaching out to take Maria’s silk clad free hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. “I find myself in need of a dance partner.” 

Varric could almost feel everyone craning towards them, trying to hear him. Maria tipped her head to the side, shaking it despite her amused smile. “Varric…” 

“I’ll stay like this all night.” He threatened. 

“Bran is going to shit himself.” She whispered, but the glint of rebellion was already dancing madly in her eyes. Varric raised himself, taking a step backward and taking her arm with him. She hesitated for only a second before she followed his lead, taking one step forward and her smile broadening as the whispers around them started. 

A breach of protocol, Varric heard someone say in a scandalized tone. He didn’t give a damn, not when Maria beamed in reckless delight. The musicians put their heads to their instruments, starting up a plaintive tune on a fiddle, joined by several strummed chords.

 

__ When we were young  
_ Oh, oh we did enough _ __   
_ When it got cold _ __   
_ Oh, oh we bundled up _ __   
_ I can’t be told _ _   
_ __ Ah, ah it can’t be done

 

Maria looked younger when she danced, the color rising to her cheeks and dusting them pink. It still reminded him of that first night he’d danced with her, a crown of flowers crooked on her head, breath steaming in the cold mountain air. The horrible, quiet moment where the mountain had come down and they’d thought her lost. 

“I love you.” He whispered, pulling her flush against him as they turned. “Tell me you know that.” 

“How could I doubt it?” She asked, her breath warm on his ear as she turned her cheek, lightly kissing his jaw. “I love you too, you know.”

He rested one of his hands on the curve of her waist, the cool silk teasing at the warm softness underneath. He leaned in, touched his forehead against hers and stared into her mesmerizing eyes. Even if he lost his damn mind in old age and turned into a dithering fool, he’d always remember Maria’s eyes shimmering in the torchlight.

He wanted to ask for everything. For her to stay and never leave him again. 

Instead, he brushed his lips against hers, catching her delighted gasp and wicked grin. As he pulled back, he spun her and caught sight of Bran, face splotchy with anger on the stairs. Aveline was beside him, shaking her head in exasperation. 

Maria was laughing when he pulled her back, and Varric couldn’t help it. He laughed too. 

  
_ Keep your head up, my love _ _   
_ _ Keep your head up, my love _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Stubborn Love" by the Lumineers.


	5. What Happens in Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria Cadash has a secret.

_ Summer in Ostwick. All the lords and ladies with country manors fled the city to their estates in droves. The rest of the population was left to swelter in the muggy heat unless they too could escape to some distant place.  _

_ Maria could - sometimes. She would give her arm right now to be climbing up the cooler mountains to Orzammar and slipping into dust town. But no, she was sitting at Zarra’s dining room table with a mountain of correspondence while Nanna sat at the other end, sipping lukewarm tea and peering at a ledger critically. Sweat rolled down the back of Maria’s neck and her blouse stuck to her skin uncomfortably.  _

_ Outside the open window she heard Bea laughing. A weak ocean breeze stirred the limp curtain and carried the scent of salt spray, of open water and…  _

_ “Do you have a letter from the Mages Collective in Ferelden explaining why they are late on their payment?” Zarra asked with a scowl, flicking the page in her ledger irritably with her pen.  _

_ “I haven’t found one yet.” Maria gestured to the mound of open letters on her left, the pile of unopened ones on her right. “Every time I get halfway through this, they bring more.”  _

_ “Don’t complain. Busy is good.” Zarra chided without any real venom, picking up her teacup. “Let me know if you find one. Templars could be up their skirts again or they could be conveniently forgetting moneys owed. Hard to tell with that lot.”  _

_ Maria shrugged and slumped down in her chair. She didn’t miss the small amused twist of Zarra’s lip or the slight shake of her grandmother’s head. Regardless, Maria plucked the next letter from the pile.  _

_ She opened it with one of her throwing knives and pulled the folded paper from within. Before she could unfold it, she heard a solid thump on heavy wood, followed by another one that was even louder. Like someone was banging a hammer against their front door. She turned in her chair, looking over her shoulder. The banging continued and she looked back to shar a concerned glance with her grandmother. “Nanna…”  _

_ “Stay here.” Zarra ordered, already on her feet. Her grandmother’s cool fingers brushed her shoulder as she moved past, into the hallway. Maria heard Zarra’s shoes clicking on the hardwood, avoiding the squeaking board in the gallery, before descending the stairs into their entrance hall.  _

_ Maria waited one heartbeat, two. Then she stood and followed in Zarra’s footsteps, avoiding the same creaking floorboard. She made it to the gallery overlooking the entrance just as Zarra nodded to one of their men to open the door. Maria didn’t even realize she still held the knife in her hand until she tightened her grip on it unconsciously.  _

_ She expected a raid by the guard (always a hazard, despite how well they were paid off) or perhaps a rival Carta clan. But the door swung open and revealed one lone dwarf. A familiar lone dwarf, handsome face furious, staring down Nanna with righteous indignation.  _

_ Maria scrambled for his name as she slowly walked the rest of the gallery, eyes locked on him. When she reached the top of the steps she paused and waited breathlessly. She could hear him, his voice terse, although she couldn’t make out the words. Nanna’s face remained impassive as she listened before she finally interrupted the young man. “Dunhark, is it?” She asked clearly.  _

_ Fynn Dunhark, Maria suddenly recalled.  _

_ “I believe your father has already negotiated the contract on your behalf. Perhaps you should take up your grievance with him.” Zarra continued on clearly, turning to close the door. “Good day.”  _

_ Fynn’s arm slammed into the open door and held it fast. “I am telling you, it’s not going to happen. I don’t make weapons for the Carta.” His voice was louder and Maria very much didn’t like the easy strength he used to hold the door open. She began to creep slowly down the steps.  _

_ “Young man, I respect your effort.” Zarra continued on diplomatically. “But a contract is a contract and payment has been arranged. Attempting to renege could cause damage…”  _

_ “A contract under false pretenses.” Fynn seethed. “And I won’t stand for your vague threats. No payment has been made yet and I am calling off the contract. Find someone else willing to work for murderers and thieves.”  _

_ “There are plenty of men willing to take our coin for their work.” Zarra continued smoothly. “These are simply for our miners to defend themselves…”  _

_ Fynn’s fist banged on the door again, loudly, and he began to curse. Maria didn’t wait for him to lift his fist again. In a flash, the knife left her hand and sunk into the wooden door so close to Fynn’s fist, she wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t shaved a few hairs off his knuckles. He pulled his hand back quickly, swearing even louder. Zarra sighed in exasperation, looking irritably over her shoulder. Maria shrugged, sidling up to her grandmother’s side with a winning smile at her before fixing the other dwarf with a rather more scornful look.  _

_ “Can we help you?”  _

_ “Right. Of course.” Fynn glared right back at her. “Nice sob story in the shop. Father on the edge of poverty, good touch for a fatherless…”  _

_ Maria reached up and wrenched her knife from the wood spinning the pointed end so that it rested dangerously at the level of Fynn’s throat.. “Finish that sentence, I dare you.”  _

_ “Criminal.” Fynn spat, throwing her contact at her feet. “Your ancestors would be ashamed of you. If you want to show me the sodding consequences, you know where to find me. Better bring backup so you don’t muss your bleedin’ hair.”  _

_ Zarra grabbed her wrist, prevented her from lashing out like she so dearly wanted to. Fynn turned on his boot, stalking away down the busy street. “We’re not spilling blood on our own stoop like savages.” Zarra scolded. “We’ll find another supplier.”  _

_ “We will not.” Maria swore, storming back into the house. Her bow was by the door where it always hung and she grabbed it. It felt right, cool and solid in her hand. It was engraved with runes, the grip inscribed with an eye wreathed in flames…  _

_ The Inquisitor’s bow. The one Dagna and Harritt had made her.  _

_ The fog of the dream ended and everything rushed back as she stared at the sparking green hand holding the bow.  _

_ Nanna was gone. Fynn was gone. She could smell smoke in the air, but when she turned she didn’t see Hercinia’s walls. She was no longer in Ostwick, no longer standing inside her grandmother’s house.  _

_ She was standing on the steps of the Viscount’s keep, and Kirkwall was burning below her. A wolf howled in the distance.  _

 

She awoke with the spine-tingling sound still in her ears, the fur against her cheek frightening her momentarily because she could have sworn it was the wolf from her dream with a jaw full of teeth at her throat. Her panic only lasted a moment, because the fur was full of familiar scents, sandalwood and ink. She propped herself up quickly and Commander Rutherford’s mantle fell into her lap. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d woken up under Cullen’s cape on the sofa in their war room. The room itself was silent and still, growing dark with the setting sun outside Skyhold’s windows. She estimated she’d been asleep for two hours or so. 

It wasn’t the first time, but it was becoming an alarmingly frequent occurrence. This had to be the second time this week alone. People were bound to start questioning why she couldn’t stay awake. Maria certainly didn’t want to talk about that shit. 

She picked up Cullen’s mantle, careful not to let the ends drag on the floor as she slipped around the heavy wood table and the maps littering it. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand as she walked, stifling a yawn when she staggered into the hallway. Outside of Skyhold, the mountains were beginning to look green and lush, summer fully upon them. Only the highest peaks would remain snow capped throughout the year. 

Maria allowed herself a moment to be annoyed by the thought they’d let her nap through another meeting this close to the Exalted Council. Leliana would never have stood for it, she was sure. Charter needed to grow a backbone and start telling Cullen and Josephine…

“They have been researching for two years!” Maria’s thoughts were derailed instantly by the shrill protest on the other side of the door to Josephine’s office. Josephine’s chair moved, she heard the legs scratch across the stone. Maria stopped short in the hallway, listening in shock as Josephine descended into a blistering torrent of what, Maria was almost sure, were Antivan curses that could make a sailor blush. 

Maria smiled, she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what had made Josie so upset, but there was always a secret thrill in listening to the buttoned up Ambassador lose her damn mind. She rocked back on her heels and leaned against the stone walls of the hallway, deciding to listen just a bit.

“I know.” Dagna’s voice chirped from the Ambassador’s office. “I know, but it’s the anchor, right? It just… it’s the only one.” 

Maria regretted her decision immediately. 

“She isn’t sleeping.” Josephine fretted. “She is so exhausted she falls asleep wherever she is! And the mark seems to grow larger each month. If something is not done, if her condition gets worse…” 

Maria rubbed her forehead with, ironically, her marked hand. It twinged sorely in protest, as it usually did, but she was having a good day. A relatively good week, honestly. 

“I am frightened for her.” Josephine continued on. “If the circle could simply find an answer…” 

“I don’t think there’s anything simple about the Inquisitor or the anchor.” Dagna sounded apologetic. “They’ll keep looking. We’ll keep looking. We won’t let her down.” 

“I know. I apologize, I just…” Josephine sighed. “Thank you for the update. At least if she is sleeping here, I know she is sleeping a bit.” 

“And you can guard her! Like a dragon!” Dagna claimed brightly. “I can make a rune to…” 

Best to nip that in the bud before it got started. She pushed the door with far too much noise, enough to cut Dagna off and give them both time to smooth away their guilty expressions. She still caught a glimpse of Dagna’s anyway. “A rune to what?” Maria asked mildly, closing the door behind her. 

“Nothing!” Dagna squeaked, then coughed. “Nothing, nothing Inquisitor.” 

“Inquisitor, the last batch of letters came in for the day while you rested. There is something here from Kirkwall.” Josephine slid in smoothly with the distraction as Dagna made a hurried escape. 

“Whatever that was, please don’t let her put runes in your office. I’m still dealing with the aftermath of the ones she put to keep strangers out of the undercroft and it’s been nearly a year.” Maria pleaded, smiling and holding up Cullen’s mantle. “Look, Josie. Another chance for you to burn it.” 

“He would never forgive me.” Josephine smiled softly, flipping through her letters on the desk. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Josie, you can’t just keep letting me drop off in the middle of meetings. If I do it at Halamshiral you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.” 

Josephine sighed, shaking her head. “This is perhaps your last chance to rest before the council. I will have you at your best.” 

“I’m always at my best.” Maria teased, taking the proffered letter with the familiar seal on it. “Anything I need to know?”

“We took things that needed your signature up to your desk, but if you are not well, please do not think you must…” Josephine started to protest. 

“I’ll take this back to Cullen then and go sort through it.” Maria smiled brightly up at Josephine. “Stop worrying. I’m fine.” 

Before Josephine could argue further, Maria vanished as quickly as Dagna had.

 

A significant number of distractions later, Maria dragged herself back up to her chamber. It was a simple enough journey from Josephine’s office to Cullen’s, but she’d been caught by Charter crossing through the rotunda. When she finally got to Cullen’s office, he was missing but she’d seen Cole walk by carrying a chicken in each arm. She couldn’t let that go without investigating, so Cole had led her to the pub where she’d ran into the Quartermaster, which led to her digging through the warehouse for spare blankets. 

Suddenly, she had missed dinner and still hadn’t even looked at what she needed to sign for Josie. She still had Varric’s letter folded up inside her pocket, the edges beginning to curl from the way she kept tracing it reassuringly, making sure it was still there. 

Thank Andraste she’d gotten that nap in after all. 

Her rooms were lit up, she could see the light flickering as she climbed the steps. She could also smell something savory and delicious. Her mouth watered and she swallowed, taking the last few steps a little quicker. 

A bowl of warm stew and a plate of freshly baked bread sat on her desk next to her ever present pile of paperwork. An Elven woman stood above the bed, critically examining a selection of Maria’s blouse laid out over the quilt. “Oh thank the Maker, Lottie.” Maria greeted, making a beeline for the desk. “I’m starving.” 

“Course you are.” The woman sniffed, shaking her short gray hair in exasperation. “You missed dinner, again, your worship.” 

“It was an accident, I swear.” Maria ripped off the end of the small loaf and dunked it into the soup with relish. The elf scoffed, but not without fondness. Lottie joined the Inquisition before Maria had, she’d been at the conclave as an Orlesian noblewoman’s maid. The noblewoman died, but Lottie survived, and instead of doing the sensible thing and running at the first moment, she’d volunteered her services while Maria slept off her first attempt at sealing the breach. 

Lottie was one of the few staff allowed in the Inquisitor’s rooms, all carefully vetted by Leliana before she’d become divine. And Lottie was Maria’s favorite because Lottie reminded her, just a bit, of Zarra Cadash. If you took away the ears. 

“I fell asleep in the war room. Again.” Maria murmured after swallowing her first bite. “Josephine is worried sick.” 

This made Lottie look up from the blouses and eye the Inquisitor critically. “Somebody ought to worry about you with your man gone. Especially now. Can’t even feed yourself properly.” 

Maria smirked, dipping a second piece of bread into the soup before ambling over to Lottie’s side. “Starting to pack for next week already?” She asked. 

“Trying to figure out which of these are going to hide your breasts.” Lottie stated bluntly. “As if it wasn’t challenging enough before. I hope some of these will still fit you.”

Maria successfully hid the first time she missed her cycle from Lottie. To be honest, she hadn’t thought much of it either. Dwarves and their infamous fertility problems meant it was  _ highly _ unlikely Varric succeeded in knocking her up over their frenzied week together in Kirkwall. Sometimes she missed a cycle when she was stressed, and she had a lot to be stressed about. 

Lottie caught on before she missed the second one because Maria’s bustiers had quite definitely  _ stopped _ fitting. And since then… it had been their secret. At first, because Maria didn’t dare hope, and then… when her blood never came the second time… 

Varric had to be the first one to know and she wasn’t going to tell him via letter. She wanted to steal away to Kirkwall right away, but the exalted council was only two weeks away and Josie would hunt her down and skin her. 

“The blue one has always been baggy.” Maria offered helpfully. “And that red one is actually Varric’s.” 

As his name left her lips, she remembered the letter in her pocket and pulled it out, collapsing on her bed next to all of her clothing and breaking the seal eagerly. Varric’s handwriting spilled over several pages, but the first sentence was the one that made her stomach flip with both nerves and excitement. 

_ I wouldn’t miss the chance to see you for the world. _

“Good news.” Maria exhaled breathlessly. “He’ll be there and we can tell everyone that I’m just exhausted because I’m growing a damn dwarf. I’m sick of keeping it a secret.” 

“At least we haven’t had to deal with suspicious vomiting yet. Once a woman starts throwing up, people only think one thing.” Lottie remarked with a smile. “And where will you be raising our little Inquisitor?” 

That she certainly didn’t know. “We’ll plan, at the council. And we’ll tell everyone after.” Maria declared, polishing off the last bite of her bread. 

“I’d stay with you, ma’am, wherever you go. If you’d have me.” Lottie added quickly. 

“Of course I would.” Maria laid her unmarked palm over her abdomen. “Can you see yet?” 

“Course I can’t.” Lottie rolled her eyes. “Now go eat and let me pack your clothes.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Maria winked, standing and tracing her fingers over the neat, precise letters sprawled over the pages she carried. She’d see Varric next week, she’d tell him and… 

She didn’t know what happened next. She had to save her Inquisition from Ferelden and Orlais, first, and then… could she take a sabbatical to have her baby? A vacation from being Inquisitor? 

Should she write and try and tell Bea she was going to be an aunt? 

What would her friends do? Or Varric’s? 

“I can hear you thinking the whole way over here.” Lottie commented, folding the blue blouse neatly. “That man’s been in love with you since you first fixed those pretty eyes on him. Everything else will work itself out, you’ll see.” 

 

She tried to help supervise the loading up of their retinue the morning of their departure from Skyhold, but Josephine roundly dismissed her. For once at a loss for anything pressing to do, Maria took the opportunity to wander the battlements. 

For some blasted reason, she felt uneasy. It reminded her, unsettlingly, of the way she’d felt that morning they’d stormed Adamant. Although everyone else seemed to count it a success, Maria had examined that siege so many times she could tell everyone each mistake that was made, each decision that had caused more death and destruction than was necessary. Adamant was her biggest failure, the one she could take sole responsibility for because, in the end, she made the decision to attack. 

“You didn’t have a choice, really.” Cole whispered from beside her. “They had to be stopped. You had to stop them.” 

“It’s alright Cole.” Maria’s answer came automatically, like reassuring a child there were no monsters under the bed. She looped her arm through his, tugging him along. “You know, the only person I haven’t heard from yet is Dorian. Everyone else is going to be there.” 

“Like before.” Cole smiled shyly down at her. “Yes?” 

Like Adamant, like being poised on the delicate knife’s edge of disaster. Like Hercinia burning. Without really thinking about it, Maria raised her hand to shield her abdomen from her own dark and twisted thoughts. “Like before.” She answered resolutely, trying to banish her fears. They had no place out here in the sunlight with Cole at her side and her friends waiting for her. 

“Love.” Cole whispered, wrinkling his brow in confusion. “You’re happy. And terrified. I… there’s something, but I don’t…” 

“Shush.” Maria laughed, pressing a gloved finger to his lips. “I’ll explain  _ after _ I talk to Varric, promise.” 

She looked up, towards the castle towers highlighted against the perfect azure sky. A bird circled lazily overhead. Skyhold looked beautiful, impressive, and magnificent. A palace for an Inquisitor, a fortress to withstand chaos. 

She loved it, truly. She knew it better than anyone else except, perhaps, Leliana and Cole. It occupied its own place in her heart, and yet… 

Did Skyhold belong to her, or did it belong to the Inquisition? Perhaps, Maria thought, that was just a simpler way of asking a much more complicated question. 

Did Maria Cadash belong to her Inquisition, or did it belong to her? 


	6. Gifts for Halamshiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric has gifts for Maria, but she's got a better one for him.

Varric Tethras spent the prior two months calling in more favors in a shorter amount of time that he’d ever done before. He always knew he’d been saving them for something, or someone, special. He didn’t even regret all the hassle. 

If Maria Cadash didn’t want her only job in Kirkwall to be as the Viscount’s Mistress… well, he could find her plenty of other things to do. As many as she’d ever had in Ostwick, possibly more because she’d have to make do without Zarra and Bea. That… well, he couldn’t bring Zarra back from the dead. And he’d reached out to Isabela, but whether or not his letters actually reached the pirate queen, he didn’t know. Hopefully, they did, and Isabela could talk some sense into the younger Cadash, but if they didn’t… 

Varric had plenty of family. She could have some of his. 

Hawke predicted, cheerfully enough, that Maria would murder him when she found out everything he’d done to make this happen. But Hero and Broody were taking the rather uncertain fate of the Inquisition much more seriously. The reports… didn’t look good. The only bright side was that Ferelden and Orlais both wanted different things, and if Maria was clever and lucky enough, she could still escape unscathed with her Inquisition intact. 

Maria’s cleverness wasn’t in doubt, but she’d once told him the only thing divine about her was her divinely bad luck. 

“I told her she played a fool’s game.” Fenris snarled, reading the latest message from Skyhold. “Being a hero, being chosen by Andraste, none of those things will save her from politics.” 

“What was she supposed to do?” Hawke asked quietly, rocking back and forth with Eli’s head resting against her shoulder. He could still hear Sabina shrieking as Hero and Varania chased her through the Viscount’s garden, but nothing tired out Fledgling like the fresh air and sunshine. 

“She should have stayed here. Our position is secure enough…” Fenris began. 

“Well, that wasn’t likely.” Carver remarked astutely. “Whole of Thedas or one shitty city in the Free Marches, what would you choose?” 

“Hey. I seem to recall you being pretty damn happy to even get into this city with nothing but the shirt on your back.” Varric jabbed his pen into the air in Carver’s general direction, not even looking up from the rest of Maria’s letter. 

“I wanted to…” 

“It’s been over ten years!” Hawke exclaimed, causing Eli to stir irritably on her shoulder. She lowered her voice and scowled down at Carver, laying with his head in Merrill’s lap as she ran her slender fingers through his hair. “Let it go, Carver. For the love of…” Hawke continued quietly. 

“Oh! But I’m happy you came to Kirkwall!” Merrill protested. 

“So is Carver. Secretly.” Hawke grumbled, turning her back on her brother. “She’ll be fine. You’re overreacting, Fenris. Our Inquisitor will have them eating out of her hand in a week.” 

Varric… wasn’t sure. He felt uneasy reading this letter and Varric couldn’t quite put his finger on what the issue was. It was as if Maria wasn’t saying something. The thought of what it could be made him a bit ill. It could be the anchor causing  _ more _ problems or it could be an assassination plot. Either were very real possibilities. 

Maria’s letter trailed into the mundane and gossip, as if she couldn’t be bothered to spare any more time for the exalted council. She asked if he’d heard about the recent disappearance of a dwarf from Orzammar, asked if he thought it was related to a rash of disappearances from the guild over the prior year. Asked if his publisher had told him how well his book was doing in Orlais. 

There was a lull in the steady background noise of Carver and Hawke sniping at each other. Varric looked up in time to observe Varania, Thom, and Sabina emerging from under the trellis full of hanging ivy. A crown of roses sat, crooked, on top of Sabina’s unruly curls, her hand tucked securely in Thom’s as she led him forward. The man had daisies threaded through his beard and Varric snorted in laughter. 

“It’s a good look, Hero.” Varric said quickly as Thom scowled. “Very… manly.” 

Thom ignored him, catching sight of the instantly recognizable writing covering the pages. “Any news?” 

“She’s not telling me something.” Varric admitted. “We’re sailing next week.” 

“Can I come?” Sabina asked pertly. Thom chuckled, straightening her crown. 

“Not this time, love.” Sabina’s lower lip jutted out into a pout immediately. Thom sighed, sinking to one knee. “We’ll be back before you’ve got a chance to miss us. Now, what should I bring you and your mama back from Halamshiral?” 

“Your safe return is all we require.” A blue flower bloomed brightly behind Varania’s ear and she had raised her knuckles anxiously to her lips. “Yes, Bina?” 

“Could you bring back a real crown?” Sabina asked brightly. 

 

Halamshiral. He couldn’t see it and  _ not _ think of Maria in her white silk dress their first visit there. He thought it looked less imposing in the daylight, though, particularly with fashionable Orlesians scattering in all directions. Varric nearly got stepped on twice by the time he made it into the inner courtyard. 

He’d heard Thom laughing about it, too, so he’d have to arrange for some payback somehow. Nothing severe enough to make Maria or Varania upset, but something minor. Maybe Sera was feeling antsy and up to a prank. 

As if he’d summoned her, the blonde tornado herself tackled Thom. “Beardy!” She shouted joyously. 

“Fuzzyhead!” Thom scooped the elf up with a laugh, spinning. 

“Hows milady?” Sera wiggled her eyebrows mischievously. “Still right in the good bits?” 

“She sends her love.” Sera snorted, raising an eyebrow as Thom put her down. Thom himself laughed, shaking his head. “Right, she doesn’t. She says you need a proper job and a proper haircut. But Sabina misses you and wants you to visit.” 

“My hair is proper enough!” Sera protested indignantly, turning her eyes down to Varric. “Finally back, are you? Done lordin’ it over Kirkwall?” 

“Missed you too Buttercup.” 

“Not half as much as you missed Quizzie.” Sera grinned wickedly. “She’s got new underthings. Or something. Her tits…” 

Sera gestured to her own chest, blew out her cheeks and made a great pantomime of a large pair of breasts. An Orlesian noblewoman shot a scandalized look at them from under her mask. Sera laughed, shaking her head.

“Interesting negotiating tactic with the exalted council.” Thom remarked dryly. 

“Only put it on to take it off, right?” Sera winked with a giggle. “C’mon! Bull and the Chargers are in the tavern and there’s a maid…” 

“Where is Maria?” Varric interrupted. Sera waved vaguely toward the palace, tugging Thom in her wake impatiently.

“She is… interesting.” Bran stated neutrally. 

“Watch your breeches, Bran. You’re just the type she loves most.” Varric cautioned.

“Wealthy and powerful?” Bran stated hopefully. Varric snorted. 

“Sure.” Varric was not Viscount to save Bran from himself. He hoped whatever Sera did to him didn’t cause any permanent damage. Varric approached the large ornamental fountain, trailing bare fingers in the cold water and reclining against it leisurely. 

“What are you doing?” Bran asked, confused. Varric smirked. 

“Listening to gossip while I wait for the Inquisitor to find me. It’s what I’ve  _ always _ done.” 

 

Varric was eavesdropping on a rather salacious conversation involving a dark alley and a masked rendezvous where the woman was uncertain which of her two suitors she’d had an encounter with. Varric needed to use that somehow, somewhere.

The conversation in the courtyard suddenly ebbed, growing to a hush as people turned. Varric followed their eyes in time to see Maria descending the steps leisurely. Her hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, a few stray tendrils drifting in the breeze around her face. She had spotted him before he’d looked up and she ignored everyone else as she descended. 

A goddess before her subjects, Varric thought fancifully. He nearly laughed at it himself before she was in front of him. “Your Inquisitorialness.” He greeted cheerfully. “Shall we take a walk?” 

Somewhere private, where he could kiss that wicked smile right off her face. Her eyes sparkled with suppressed…  _ joy _ . 

“Why walk when you’ve got such a great spot already? You’ve always been good at scooping out prime locations.” She teased, inching closer and tipping her head up teasingly. One of her gloved hands raised itself to his chest and slowly slipped over his bare chest, underneath the silk and rested over his thrumming heart. “I want a proper hello from the Viscount.” 

Well, who was he to deny such a tempting request? It was, he realized belatedly, not like their secret hadn’t already been the worst kept one in Skyhold. And after his coronation and the official announcements declaring her his official mistress… well, anyone in Orlais that didn’t already know was a fool. 

Then his thoughts went out the window, because she tugged him forward by his shirt and he fell into her kiss as effortlessly as falling asleep. She was like champagne bubbles on his tongue, sparkling and bright. She pressed herself closer against him and… Maker, Sera was right. Whatever contraption she was wearing under that tunic had done wonders for her already delectable breasts. 

Bran cleared his throat self-consciously and Maria laughed at the sound against his lips. The bubble of conversation popped around them, the hubbub of the courtyard returning with a vengeance as he pulled away. Varric heard the suspicious clink of coin changing hands. It was good to know Orlesians would bet on anything just the same as Free Marchers. Maria’s hand continued to rest over his heart as though she were loathe to pull away. “I’m glad you’re finally here.” 

“And I brought you gifts.” Varric rested his hand, gently, over hers. “Thought they’d cheer you up after dealing with all these Orlesians.” 

“Unless it’s a rope for me to climb over the walls, I…” Before she could finish her sentence, Varric took a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it in her free hand. Maria paused, flicking the folded paper open with a shake and glancing over it. “Varric...what…?”

“A list of all your titles and holdings in Kirkwall. I did some research, and it turns out that there are perks beyond my chest hair that go with the whole… Viscount’s Mistress thing.” He waved his hand in the air as her forehead wrinkled. Quickly, he continued on. “You’ve got your own estate outside the city with some rather fancy orchards, plus a couple ships in the harbor. Your very own wing of the keep too, apparently, although I’m still convincing Aveline to store her training dummies elsewhere. I also promoted you to a Comtesse in your own right…” 

“You can’t actually do that!” Bran protested shrilly.

“Too late, already did it.” Varric shrugged nonchalantly. “Just in case anything happens to me and you still want the estate. Fenris says you could grow wine there if you wanted.” 

“If I wanted or Fenris wanted?” Maria raised an eyebrow. 

“Fair question. Still, if you’ve got to have the title, you might as well get the nice things, right?” Varric asked hopefully.

Maria sighed, shaking her head as she folded the paper. He felt his heart sink just a bit. “Varric…” 

“Wait, that’s not all!” He grinned. “I’ve also got you a seat in the Merchant’s Guild.” 

There wasn’t much that could shock Maria Cadash, but that did the trick. Her mouth fell open almost immediately. Then she swallowed, hard. “Varric, you didn’t.” 

“Yeah, don’t thank me. I was just going to give you mine, but they got so angry about it.” 

“This is highly irregular!” Bran cut in. 

“You’re telling me.” Maria muttered, finally slipping away from Varric and nearly collapsing on the edge of the fountain, lifting her hand to rub at her forehead. “Varric, if you’re angry about me we can just talk about it. No need to throw me to the guild.” 

“You know there have already been complaints from the…” Bran continued, gesturing wildly. 

“Bran, maybe you should leave us to talk.” Varric jutted his chin in the opposite direction. Bran retreated a few paces back, but stayed in listening distance. 

“Maria…” Varric began gently. 

“The guild doesn’t want me, Varric. I am…” She struggled for the word, than indicated her whole body. “I’m me. I’m not one of them.”

“You’re right.” He said firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not. But maybe with people like you and me in it… we could change it.” 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Maria groaned. “What are you up to? Why in the Maker’s hairy ass are you doing this?” 

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Varric soothed, rubbing a small circle over her shoulder. “I’ve also got you something shiny…”

Magpie that she was, Maria looked up. Varric fished the ornate key out of his pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes. “Key to the city, just for you.” 

“You can’t just give that away!” Bran squawked. “There’s a ceremony, and…” 

“It’s purely decorative.” Varric snapped irritably. “What is the big deal?” 

“It operates one of the chains at the docks!” Bran revealed, rubbing his own temple. This brought the color right back to Maria’s face. 

“No! Really?” She asked with a small smile. 

“That… that’s better than I thought it would be actually.” Varric admitted, rubbing his chin. 

“Can I try it out?” Maria asked hopefully, twirling the key around her finger. 

“Absolutely not!” 

“Of course you can.” Varric contradicted Bran immediately. The man finally threw up his hands and stalked away, mumbling under his breath. Varric chuckled. 

“Varric, this is… a lot. Too much.” She protested. “How did you... I don’t even want to know what this cost you.” 

“Nothing I wasn’t prepared to pay.” Varric slowly sank to his knees in front of Maria, taking her hands in his and pressing a soft kiss over the leather gloves she was wearing. “Maria, I want you to feel at home in Kirkwall. That’s it, I swear. No matter what happens… here, with your Inquisition, with everything… I don’t know how it’ll turn out. But you have a home now, if you want it.” 

She wrenched one of her hands out of his and brought it up to her eyes, rubbing it against them furiously to hide… 

“Maria, are you  _ crying _ ?” He asked in wonder. 

“No!” She protested, ducking her head quickly. “Absolutely not.” 

He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped from his chest as he squeezed her remaining hand. “Hey, I won’t tell.” 

That made her laugh through her tears, her whole shoulders shaking. “I’ve got a gift for you too, you idiot. But, I can’t here… did you find my rooms yet?”

“Not yet.” He admitted, standing and tugging her to her feet. 

“Ma’am, the Tevinter ambassador would like a word.” A elf said from their left, bobbing a short curtsey. Varric and Maria both turned to gawk at her like she had three heads. 

“I’m sorry, did you say Tevinter ambassador?” Maria repeated, puzzled. 

“Why, I do hope I’m interrupting something  _ scandalously _ romantic.” A man drawled amusingly from behind them. A very familiar, accented drawl. 

“Dorian!” Maria had turned in an instant, a wide grin breaking out over her face. There, in the flesh, the only Tevinter altus probably worth knowing. He stretched his arms out wide. 

“Cadash!” He cried out in barely concealed delight. In another second, Maria had thrown herself at him and he’d swung her off the ground. 

“Someday,” Varric joked. “You’ll love me like that.” 

“Unlikely!” Dorian scowled playfully over Maria’s head. “Now, you have to tell me how exactly you ended up dragged by your ear in front of an exalted council. Which, may I remind you, I always said would happen.” 

“I will, I promise, but Varric…” Maria was trying to break out of Dorian’s grip, but Dorian placed one hand to his heart, aghast.

“He sees you  _ far _ more frequently than I do. I believe even newly minted Viscounts have to share.” Dorian swung his arm companionably around Maria’s shoulders. “Come, have you seen the sculptures over in the east wing? They’re absolutely horrid.” 

Maria frowned reluctantly over her shoulder. Varric laughed into his hand, shaking his head. “Go, I’ll find your rooms and make myself at home.” He ordered. “See you for dinner?” 

“Alright.” Maria admitted defeat, staring up at Dorian. “You know, it’s poor precedent to allow myself to get kidnapped by Tevinter nobles.” 

 

Maria’s rooms in the palace looked out over the private royal gardens, rich with the scent of honeysuckle and roses. The bed, opulent and extravagantly Orlesian, dominated the room. Outside, he could hear the quiet murmurs of two of Maria’s Inquisition honor guard talking. 

Lottie’s face was blank when she saw him. “Has she seen you yet?” The woman asked, taking great care to straighten up one of Maria’s uniforms on the hangers.

“Briefly.” Varric admitted cheerfully. “Sparkler took her out from under my fingertips, but she said she’ll be back for dinner.”

Lottie snorted in disbelief. “Yes, she always remembers to eat. Although if you are here, she may adhere to her own schedule.” 

“Has it been bad?” Varric asked quietly. He wouldn’t get details from Lottie, the woman was unswervingly tight lipped about Maria and loyal to nobody but her. 

“Her mark bothers her after traveling, but she is in good spirits.” Lottie patted the uniform affectionately. “I hope you see to it that she takes care of herself? Creators know I could use the assistance. Nothing ever slows her down.” 

“I’ll find the kitchen and bring up dinner while I try to figure out where they actually put my bags.” Varric mused. 

“No cabbage, she can’t stand the smell lately.” Lottie instructed severely. “And I have cider here for her already.” 

“I’ll even find some sweet cakes for you.” Varric promised grandly. 

“Make sure that Charter’s agents check the food.” Lottie added softly, turning to eye Varric as she stood. “She is in more danger here than she was at the foot of the breach, regardless of whether or not she believes it.” 

 

By the time the door opened to reveal Maria, Varric had everything situated. Lottie had taken her sweet rolls and made herself scarce. Varric found some wine and had it chilling, despite Lottie’s insistence that Maria would prefer the cider, plus he’d found some nice roasted ham. It didn’t taste of despair, he’d already checked. 

He’d also emptied out the closet he’d been assigned and dumped his own belongings in a jumble among Maria’s. It was the first thing she noticed, rolling her eyes as she shut the door. “Unhappy with your room?”

“It was missing a certain someone.” He admitted carelessly. 

“Speaking of missing someone, Cassandra was hoping to see you.” At his shocked expression, Maria snickered. “It’s true. She asked where you were. I think she’s planning to stop by and say hello.” 

“Well, we won’t be answering. I’ve got plans that do not involve the Seeker, thank you very much.” Varric raised two wine glasses with a grin he hoped matched the most wicked of hers. 

“I can’t stay.” Maria frowned and looked genuinely distraught. “Josephine cornered me and… she had the eyes, whining about how we never go anywhere just the two of us. So now, apparently, I’m going to some Orlesian play.” 

Varric bit back his mirth, barely. “Princess, do you know how long Orlesian plays are?”

“I know! I know.” Maria groaned, “Listen, I…” 

“Well, eat something first.” Varric instructed, pulling out her chair. “You’ll need some sustenance to get through it.” 

“I still haven’t given you your gift.” Maria’s hand tangled in the golden chain around her neck, tugged it impatiently. 

“I’m a patient man.” Varric chuckled. “I can wait a bit longer.”

“I can’t.” Instantly, Maria was in front of him, pushing him into the chair he’d pulled out for her. She paused, almost uncertain, before gently laying her hands over his shoulders. “I’ve been waiting ages, I don’t want to wait anymore.” 

“Should I close my eyes?” Varric trailed his fingers up her sides, teasing her skin through the silk blouse. 

“No, leave them open and look at me, or you won’t think I’m serious.” Her pensive smile faltered only a moment as she stroked her fingers through his hair. “I love you, Varric.” 

Somehow, this had taken a worrying turn. He frowned. “I love you too. And, if you’re breaking up with me, this is the worst present I’ve ever received. I demand you return it.” 

Her fingers stilled and she took a deep breath. 

“I’m having a baby. Your baby.” 

 

The world stopped. Varric heard his own heart hammering against his ribs uncomfortably. Maria’s fingertips were pinpoints of fire in his hair, her eyes glimmered with emotions too vast to be contained in any one person. 

_ Not _ a new bustier then. And she wouldn’t want the wine he brought up. Apparently, also, cabbage was now a thing to be avoided at all costs. He wondered, distantly, how Lottie had unfortunately learned that lesson. 

A baby.  _ His _ baby. He’d dreamt of it often since their last jaunt in the fade. A redheaded girl he called Sunshine, her mother’s Magpie. A child with Maria’s pale skin and her gray eyes, a captive audience to spin his stories for, a bubble of laughter in the Viscount’s empty palace. 

Maria’s child. Sweet Andraste, a baby. 

“Varric, say something.” Maria’s plea cut into him like a knife. His body responded to it while his mind still struggled to catch up, grabbing her as he stood and pulling her warm eager mouth to his as her fists fastened into his shirt. 

It was the only thing he could say because for the first time, he had no words. He poured everything he had into that kiss until he was panting, breathless against her, hanging onto her like a lifeline. 

“Who knows?” He whispered, pressing his forehead against hers and staring into her beautiful gray eyes.

“Lottie. Cole, maybe, but I’m not sure he understands. I couldn’t tell anyone else until…” 

He claimed her lips again, unable to help himself. She choked on a laugh, bringing her hands to his shoulders to anchor herself against him. He could feel her smile in the kiss. She pulled back, lips swollen, pink flushing her cheeks. “You can’t tell anyone, not until after this. Promise.” 

“I promise.” Varric swore. Anything she asked, anything she wanted. He was hers, more completely and utterly than he’d ever been before. “I promise. Our secret, for now. But then, I shout it from the rooftops.” 

“Deal.” Maria purred. 


	7. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria can't hide anything from Bull and makes a critical error with Cassandra.

“But where are you getting a baby from?” Cole asked into the mundane silence of their breakfast. Maria couldn’t remember what time she’d stumbled in from the play, but Varric had been asleep when she arrived. In exchange, she’d woken up to find he’d been up for some time and had cobbled together a rather delicious breakfast. He’d also found Cole. The boy had his hat off and was sitting in the window seat, turning it over and over in his hands anxiously. “I asked Bull where they came from. He said to ask Varric.” 

She choked on her toast and fumbled her reports. Varric ducked his head, rubbing his temple slowly. Maria didn’t miss the pleading look he shot her. “Absolutely not.” She stated unequivocally. “If we have a girl, I’ll deal with her, but Cole is your territory.”

“Do you get to choose? A boy or a girl?” Cole asked quietly, flicking his pale eyes between the two of them. 

“Right. Where do I start?” Varric asked wearily.

“With Maryden, honestly. I don’t know what’s going on there, but it’s something.” Maria recommended, flipping to the next page of her report. She ignored the sharp spike of pain up her right arm that accompanied the sudden motion. Damned hand. 

Three sharp, sudden knocks saved Varric from having to begin the conversation with Cole. Before anyone could go answer it, the heavy oak door swung inward and Vivienne swirled in, a fluffy robe hugging her curves. “Come along, darling. I made us reservations and it wouldn’t do to be late.” 

“Late for what?” Maria asked, perplexed. Vivienne let out a long suffering sigh, sweeping her dark eyes skyward as if praying for patience. 

“The Imperial spa, darling. You work much too hard and you’ve earned a rest. Besides, we believe the relaxation could soothe the anchor.” 

“We who?” The words were out of her mouth, but she held up her hand to stop Vivienne from answering. Maria knew the answer. “Dorian, of course.” 

“He’s already waiting for us. Now, put this on.” Vivienne ordered, holding out a much shorter, but equally fluffy robe. “The spa waits for no one, my dear.” 

“Maybe she can finish eating first?” Varric suggested lightheartedly, but Maria heard the edge of concern under it. 

“Not to worry, dear! There is a fine selection of Orlesian delicacies at the spa. Imported cheeses, jellied fruits…” Vivienne snapped her fingers impatiently. “Now, come along.” 

She shared an apologetic glance with Varric as she stood. He slumped in defeat, shaking his head. “If I find out you skipped a meal today, I’m locking you in this room.” He warned as she kissed the corner of his mouth. Hidden by the table and the angle of her body, his hand slipped to press lightly against her stomach. 

“Noted.” She responded wryly. “Swear Cole to secrecy when you’re done, will you?” 

“I’ll try.” Varric promised dubiously, eying the boy nervously.  

 

The cheeses were horrid and the jellied fruits smelled sour. Her stomach complained loudly by the time she finally escaped Vivienne and Dorian, making a beeline to the tavern to find something edible. Sera sat in the corner surrounded by a rather suspicious assortment of characters, but before she could even step foot inside she managed to get herself roped into a scheme to distract the Iron Bull long enough for his chargers to sneak a rather large dragon’s skull into the tavern.

Maria ignored her suspicions that the skull had been purloined from Skyhold somehow. It wasn’t like she didn’t have a dozen. 

“Hey boss.” Iron Bull greeted casually, pushing over a plate loaded with the largest slice of apple pie she’d ever seen. If Bull asked at that moment, she’d have left Varric for him immediately. She grabbed a fork eagerly and dove in, making a little hum in her throat. Maker, it was still warm. 

“Have I ever told you I love you?” She asked. “Because I do.” 

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to end up on the less pretty side of Bianca.” Bull chuckled, warm and low in his throat. “See you got away from Dorian?” 

“Barely.” She admitted, jabbing the fork in his direction as she swallowed another bite. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping him occupied?” 

“He burns through the ropes sometimes. Can’t help it.” 

She nearly choked on the next mouthful of pie, coughing and trying not to dissolve into a puddle of undignified laughter. Bull pounded her on the back so hard she only barely kept herself from being rammed into the edge of the bar. Bull smiled sheepishly. “Sorry boss.” 

“You better be. I demand another slice of pie as an apology.” Still chuckling, Bull waved over the barman. Over his hulking shoulder, Maria saw the skull get stuck in the tavern door. Krem shot her a panicked look and she shrugged.

“Cole had an interesting question last night.” Bull mused, swirling his ale in his mug. The barkeep had already set another slice of pie in front of her and she beamed at him, causing him to flush and stagger away. 

“I know. I’m making Varric have the talk with him. I’m a bit worried things with Maryden have gotten that far. Can kinda-real boys make more of themselves?” She asked quickly, taking another bite of pie. The chargers were still staring at the skull stuck in the door. 

Bull’s steady gaze was hardly impressed. “Also had a talk with Sera about your knockers.” 

“You know, there are more important things going on than my tits. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s an exalted council happening.” 

Bull shook his head, grinning. “You’re good, you know. Not Ben Hassrath good, but good.”

“I’m  _ amazing _ .” Maria stated. “That’s why you owe me ten sovereigns from our last game of Wicked Grace. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“I owe you ten sovereigns because you cheat.” Bull argued. “So, Varric knows by now, right? Must have happened the last time you were in Kirkwall. Two months, give or take?” 

“It’s Wicked Grace, everyone cheats.” Maria replied mildly. “We’re not telling anyone, Bull, so shut your trap before I shut it for you.” 

This made Bull laugh. “Right, boss. Noted.” His laughter faded into something serious, a frown replacing his easy smile. Dalish had whipped out her staff behind him and Maria had an ominous feeling the skull was going to go flying. “If the Fereldens or Orlesians find out… They’ll see it as a weakness to exploit. I would, if I were them.” 

“Then they don’t find out.” Maria tapped her fingers irritably on the bar counter. “Do you know what your team is trying to do behind you?” 

“They’ve got to have it nearly in the door by now.” Bull smirked. 

“It’s going to go flying. Be prepared to duck.” Maria advised. “And Bull… don’t tell Dorian. The minute he knows…” 

“It’ll be all over Val Royeaux, I know.” Bull sighed wearily, but couldn’t hide the fond smile. “He’ll be thrilled. We’re happy for you, boss. Might want to tell Varric to tone down the dreamy look on his face, though. He’ll give it away before you do.” 

Suddenly, the skull arched over one table before landing with a resounding crack on another one, sending goblets and platters flying. Bull schooled his face into something resembling surprised awe as he turned around. “Happy birthday Chief!” Krem shouted. The rest of the Chargers whooped with delight. 

Maria hid her smile with another forkful of pie. 

 

“I agree.” Leliana, or as Maria needed to get used to saying, Divine Victoria declared. “The rest of the Ferelden contingent has arrived and we will begin proceedings tomorrow. We must not show fear, the Inquisition still has much to offer to the world.” 

Cullen groaned impatiently. “Obviously.” He stated bluntly. “The Inquisition is one of the true forces for good in this world. It’s exactly the reason Ferelden and Orlais…” 

“Careful, Cullen.” Josie advised gently. “No good has ever come from people being convinced that their point of view is the only correct one.” 

Despite the spa, her arm was on fire and she felt exhausted. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her forearm with her unmarked hand. It was like she had bees crawling up her skin. “Kill ‘em with kindness, right Josie?” Maria quipped.

“Indeed. You have charmed them all before, I have no doubt you will do so again.” Josephine’s confidence was wildly misplaced. If Maria had her way, she might have just ignored this whole summons. “I recommend resting tonight, your worship. It will be a long day tomorrow.” 

“Do you need anything?” Leliana’s tone sounded overly-solicitous. “I can have nearly anything you wish delivered.” 

“Is your room well situated?” Josephine worried. “If the light from the garden is keeping you from sleeping…” 

“You are well-guarded, I assure you.” Cullen soothed. 

“Andraste’s tits.” Maria swore. “What is the matter with the lot of you? Do I look that shitty?” 

“No!” Cullen blushed to the very roots of his hair. “I mean, you look, not that I have been looking…” 

“Dorian informed us that he is concerned about the mark’s rapid spread.” Leliana jumped in. “He believes you are overtaxing yourself and wishes a bit more care to be taken with you. He said, and I quote, that we only have one Inquisitor. Nobody else would be mad enough to take the job.” 

“For fuck’s sake.” Maria exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “I’m going to smack him. Stop coddling me.” 

Cullen laughed into his fist, then rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. Nobody else would meet her eyes. Maria stood, shoving her chair back from the table. “If nobody else has anything, I’m going to go track him down now.” 

“Cassandra was looking for you.” Josephine stared firmly at her clipboard. “She said it was urgent, but when I asked she simply stammered that it was personal. I am not entirely sure what it was regarding.” 

Interesting. “Well, I’ll find Cass first, then smother our favorite magister in his sleep. Unless there are any objections…?” 

“Please save all acts of violence until after the Exalted Council concludes.” Josephine ordered, stabbing her clipboard with her quill. “And wear the blue tunic tomorrow. It brings out your eyes.” 

 

Cassandra pacing - never a good sign. Maria rounded the corner and took in the sight of the Seeker wearing a hole in the tiled floor of the secluded terrace. Cassandra turned on her heel, bringing her face to face with Maria. 

“You’re here!” Cassandra sounded shocked, freezing in motion. 

“Am I?” Maria asked, looking down as if to take stock of her body. “So it seems.”

“I just… I was looking for you and…” 

“Here I am!” Maria smiled. “Almost a miracle, isn’t it? Should I go somewhere else instead and you can find me? It’ll be like the good old days.” 

“Please don’t.” Cassandra rubbed her forehead anxiously. “I… I simply wasn’t prepared.” 

“Should I leave and come back?” She offered, peering up into Cassandra’s stormy face. “I can come around the corner again and we can start over.” 

“No… no, this is adequate.” Cassandra straightened her shoulders, squaring off as if she expected to face down a dragon. “Perhaps you should sit.” 

“Maybe you should.” Maria advised, shaking her head in disbelief. “Maker’s breath, what’s gotten into you?” 

“Maybe I should.” Cassandra repeated, turning to the steps and collapsing heavily. “I… this sounded better in my head.” 

With Cassandra seated, Maria was able to stand in front of her and peer levely into Cass’s face. “Are you alright, Cass? Is something wrong? Are your seekers okay?” 

“Yes. I am quite well, my friend. Although there were several times I would not have minded your bow at my back.” Cassandra smiled wryly. “We will rebuild, and stronger, thanks to you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet, Cass.” Maria advised, relaxing by a degree and taking a seat on the step next to Cassandra. “Let’s see if I can make it through this council without them undoing everything.” 

“They cannot. Your cause is just.” Cassandra declared impatiently. Maria laughed low in her own throat. 

“Do you ever doubt?” 

“Not in you.” Cassandra declared, turning her face to stare into Maria’s. “Are you well? I have heard troubling news from our friends.” 

“I’ll live, promise.” She reclined back on her hands, stretching out in the sun and closing her eyes. “I’m glad to see everyone. I’m glad you’re back.” 

“...is there nothing more to be glad for?”

Maria opened one eye warily and watched the Seeker suspiciously. Cassandra’s face appeared both serious and earnest, with a bit of wistful longing thrown in. “Why? What have you heard?” Maria asked suspiciously.  

“It is only, if it were true, I would be so happy for you.” Cassandra rushed out, reaching out to clasp one of her hands over Maria’s securely. It was the marked hand and the ungentle touch made her want to wince, sent pins up her arm. Maria kept her face still, neutral. “Being the Inquisitor has brought you so much, but little of your own desire. You deserve to build a future with him, if you so choose. Varric makes you happy, and he is clearly thrilled.” 

He wouldn’t be after she got a hold of him. She made a noise torn between dismay and exasperation, tearing her hand from Cassandra and pushing herself up off the steps. “He was supposed to be keeping this a secret!” 

Cassandra’s eyes shined with joy and triumph. “He did not say in so many words…” 

“He kept Hawke hidden for two bloody years, but one of the most important secrets of our lives…” 

“He was merely talking about how he must begin work on the Viscount’s keep for your quarters. He was writing to Guard Captain Aveline, and…” 

“People can’t know, Cass. If people knew… I want to keep my personal life out of politics if I can.” She ran one hand, distraught, through her own hair. “I’m going to strangle him.” 

“I’m sure he deserves it for something, but I know he did not mean to give you away.” Cassandra switched her tone to placating. “Your secret is safe with me. When it is time, I simply ask to… I would like to be present for this momentous occasion. As your friend.” 

Despite herself and her building fury, Maria was touched. Cassandra’s face overflowed with happiness. Maria felt herself soften, just a bit. “Of course. Of course you’ll be there, Cass. If you want. I’d… it would mean a lot to me. You’re like… well, a better sister than Bea has been lately.” 

“When she knows, she will come around. You will see. She will wish to be a part of it.” Cassandra gushed, standing as well and laying her hand over Maria’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Maria.” 

She felt an uncomfortable burn in the back of her throat, had to swallow twice to get past it. She placed her own hand, the marked one despite the prickling pain, over Cassandra’s. “Thank you. I wanted to ask you, anyway… I know you’ll take care of them if something ever happens to me.” 

“You will be around to take care of all of us for much longer, I assure you.” Cassandra’s eyes drew together in an expression that belied her stubbornness. 

“I plan on it, but… you’ll be there no matter what. I can always count on you.” And she could. She knew Cassandra would run to her when called, no matter the danger. Like a sister should. “You’ll be the godmother, right? You may have to share the honor with Hawke, but…” 

Cassandra’s expression of joy dropped clean away and she took a hasty step back. “Godmother?” She repeated, dumbfounded.

“I know it isn’t the best job, but you had to see it coming.” Maria crossed her arms over her chest. 

“You are not getting married.” Cassandra stated slowly and bluntly, raising a hand to rub briskly at her own face. “You’re with child.” 

Maria’s mind whirled backwards, replaying the conversation in her mind. “Fuck!” She swore, turning on her heel and stomping towards the railing. She continued to swear blisteringly into the distance. Cassandra stood, silent and shocked, behind her.

“I… I had only guessed. Varric seemed so happy, and fixing up the palace… I thought for your own quarters. But, no…” Cassandra’s voice had gone quiet, almost in awe. “Not for you. Not for only you.” 

“I’m a bloody idiot.” Maria moaned, resting her forehead against the railing. “And I thought it’d be Varric that gave it away. I’ll never make it through the council at this rate. We may as well just have Josephine announce it right off the bat.” 

“Absolutely not.” Cassandra corrected sternly. “They would use it against you in this game of theirs. I will not see my godchild as a political pawn.” 

She nearly laughed and very nearly cried, hiding the tears in her eyes with her arms as Cass gently laid a hand over the small of her back. “I will tell no one, I promise. I will not even tell Varric I knew.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Cass. He’ll figure it out.” Maria sniffed. “Bull figured it out too, and Cole plucked it right out of our heads. Nobody else knows except Lottie.” 

“Once we are away from this pit of vipers, you can tell the whole world.” Cassandra was smiling, Maria could hear it in her voice. “Do you think it is a girl or a boy?” 

“Varric is convinced it is a girl.” Maria smiled too, couldn’t help it. “I’d like that.” 

 

_ She knew two things about deshyrs. One, they loved to gamble. Two, they loved to drink. Maria, frankly, also knew she could outdrink and outplay every single one of them. She rarely lost at cards, knew exactly when and how to cheat. She mastered distraction early on. _

_ Before she’d slipped into the tavern, she unlaced her blouse just enough to reveal the creamy pale skin dipping into her generous cleavage and tucked the loose hem snugly into the waist of her pants. Her golden pendant rested, trembling, over the tops of her exposed breasts.  “This is ridiculous.” Beatrix whined.  _

_ “Go home then.” Maria sniffed impatiently. Beatrix frowned, but made no movement to leave. Instead, Maria took a deep breath and shoved the door open.  _

_ It was a classy place, not like the kind she drank at for sure, but it still smelled like a tavern. Stale ale and too many men crammed into a small place. It set her nerves at ease. In the back, where she knew they’d be, was a knot of dwarven men deep in a quiet game of Wicked Grace.  _

_ Maria spent a lot of time learning where Fynn Dunhark went when he wasn’t at his smithy. She knew the name of every man there, all younger men, sons of some of the wealthiest families in Ostwick.  _

_ But men were men, and Maria knew men too.  _

_ Bea peeled off quietly, climbing onto a bar stool with an air of trepidation she couldn’t quite shake. This was, quite possibly, the most brilliant idea Maria ever had or one of the worst. Either way, Nanna was surely going to dislike it when she found out. If she found out.  _

_ “Hello boys.” She purred, coming up behind one of the men, leaning over to check out his hand and display her generous chest in the best light. All of them looked, even Fynn, before his eyes flicked up to her face and he frowned. “Wicked Grace? My favorite game.”  _

_ “We’ve got  room for one more.” A nearly beardless lad squeaked, indicating an empty chair beside him. “If you’d like, that is.”  _

_ “That’s Olaf’s chair, you daft git.” Fynn muttered darkly under his breath. “What do you want, Cadash?”  _

_ “Not Olaf’s chair anymore if she wants it.” Another man whispered from her right. “Could stand a night not looking at his ugly mug.”  _

_ Maria pouted, fixing the oldest of the group with her most innocent expression. Liam Poldrick, son of the man who owned this fine establishment. If he said she could stay… “My game got cancelled, and I heard there was one up here for high stakes. I couldn’t help being a bit… curious.” _

_ She put emphasis on the word curious, and she saw every man wonder what else she could be convinced to be curious about. Liam stroked his red beard with an indulgent grin, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, come on then. What’s your name, girlie?”  _

_ Maria sat down two chairs to Fynn’s left, leaning forward to fling a gold coin onto the table. “Maria.” She answered sweetly. “Maria Cadash.”  _

_ She heard Bea’s audible sigh from behind and ignored it.  _

_ Thank the Maker she’d learned how to drink from the miners, because the deshyrs were quite serious about getting her drunk. She didn’t have to fake the flush in her cheeks from the alcohol, that was genuine, but she did allow herself to get a little… handsy with the one on her right.  _

_ There was a vein on Fynn’s temple that was throbbing. He’d been vicious about going after her, in a rather pointed attempt to knock her out of the game. Maria couldn’t help but be a bit impressed, he was a good strategist, even if his tells were laughably obvious. She’d brought a rather large supply of her own gold, though, and even if she hadn’t, her stake had been covered by the other men several times. They were rather more invested in keeping her there. The only struggle she really faced was to do well enough to be believable, but not do so well she’d spook him.  _

_ Finally, only four of them were even playing, the rest having run through their allowances quickly. Still, they all stayed, doing their utmost to ply her with a steady stream of compliments and ale. From over their heads, she could see Beatrix looking more amused and irritated all night.  _

_ “I’m almost out of coin.” Maria lied, letting Fynn take the pot and folding the hand that would have won it for her.  _

_ “Pity.” He snapped. “Maybe you should go home.”  _

_ “Fynn, you’re an idiot.” Liam said mildly. “I’ll front you, sweetheart, don’t you worry.”  _

_ “Well, I do have something…” Maria reached into her pouch, saw Beatrix straighten at her motion, eyes fastening onto the table like a riveting stage play. She pulled out the rolled up contract, fluttering her lashes at Fynn. “Nanna wanted to throw this away, but I said it still had value. We could have sold it to someone else, you know, and let them try and collect.”  _

_ Fynn’s eyes burned like coals, fastened onto the papers in her hands. She saw his jaw clench. There was a low whistle from one of the men who turned his shit-eating grin on Fynn. “Dunhark, didn’t know you were making steel for the Carta now.”  _

_ “I’m not.” He growled. “My father signed it.”  _

_ “It’s binding then, Fynn.” Another man warned. “You shouldn’t try and back out of it.”  _

_ “You could win it.” Liam smirked, settling his arm around Maria’s wrist and jerking her flush to his side. “Or maybe I can buy it off you, love. Wouldn’t mind having high and mighty in my pocket.”  _

_ She watched the war across his face with fascination. He scowled at Liam’s arm around her waist, then at Liam himself, before considering her carefully. She could see him examining all the angles, looking for the catch.  _

_ Smart man. If he hadn’t been drinking all night, he may not have fallen for it. But, he did. “Fine, I’ll play for it.”  _

_ “It’s worth more than any of the gold here, though.” Maria remarked astutely. “What do you have to buy in with?”  _

_ One thing. There was really only one thing Fynn Dunhark owned worth her contract and she knew it. She held her breath, waiting for him to balk. But instead, he elbowed the man next to him. “Paper, and be quick about it.”  _

_ Instantly, a piece of paper and a quill appeared. Fynn slowly, deliberately, began to form the letters. Even from upside down, Maria could read it, and it made her heart flutter. She shot a glance up at Bea, who was frozen at the bar. She mouthed two words ‘no way.’ _

_ Fynn Dunhark was drawing her up an IOU for his blacksmithing operation. Two of his compatriots, respected deshyrs, signed it as witnesses. He’d fallen into her trap so completely, she very nearly felt guilty.  _

_ Then she remembered the look on his face when he called her a fatherless criminal and steeled herself, smiling sweetly as she reached for the deck. “My turn to deal?”  _

 

_ She crushed him. It was a blur, the only thing sure and steady were her hands on the cards. But when he flipped the angel of death over, then smugly revealed three wands and two pentacles, she knew she had him. Slowly, deliberately, she spread her suite of cups over the table. Everyone was silent and Maria felt her heart thump unevenly as she reached for the two bundles of paper on the table. “These are mine, I believe.”  _

_ Someone whistled low in their throat. Someone else chuckled. “That’s why you never go back on your contacts with the Carta.” Someone else whispered.  _

_ Fynn’s eyes were furious, burning a hole into the cards she’d laid out as she stood. She felt a bit shaky, from the adrenaline, from victory, she didn’t know. Bea looked triumphant at the bar, gloating smugly.  _

_ “Come back soon, sweetness.” Liam called. He was one of the ones laughing. She grabbed Bea by the shoulder as she passed, dragging her off her bar stool. She could feel everyone’s eyes lingering on her, tracing down her skin. She felt like she needed a damn bath.  _

_ Bea giggled madly, bubbling with joy as she talked about the way Fynn’s face had fallen, but Maria felt a little sick. She looked down at her arm looped through Bea’s saw the green lines glowing from beneath the thin cotton.  _

_ A wolf howled in the distance.  _

 

She woke up before the sun did, way before Varric. Her heart hammered in her chest, pain raced up her arm, but she didn’t move. Varric was beside her, snoring lightly, sprawled out over as much of the Orlesian bed as he could be. She ran her unmarked fingers down his bare chest, over the thick hair covering it. Softer than someone would think, just looking at it. He smelled of parchment, of ink, of the oil he used to polish the wood of the crossbow leaning against her armoire. She let her hand drift lower, over his hard stomach, down the scar where the blade slipped between his ribs and almost ripped him from her. 

Maria Cadash only knew how to lose the things she loved. The thought made her blink back tears. She should have felt secure, but something was wrong. She didn’t know if it was nerves for the small life she was carrying inside her, the lingering horror of being haunted by Fynn’s ghost, or the sword poised at the neck of her Inquisition.

All she knew was that she was frightened, and that fear made her curl closer to Varric as he slept peacefully.


	8. Going Sideways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exalted Council goes sideways. Maria refuses to stay home and learn to knit.

Sometimes, when Maria Cadash felt nervous, she still reached for the dagger that used to hang on her hip. For a brief moment, years of habit overcame memory, and she forgot that the weapon lay twisted and ruined in the top drawer of her desk in Skyhold. Her gloved fingers closed on nothing but the air and at her hip and she froze, remembering it all over again. 

There was another knife she wore now, tucked into the belt high on her waist, closer to her back than her front. She didn’t reach for that one, but smoothed her smart blue jacket over her hip instead.

She looked lovely, crisp and official. Red hair arranged into a rather more elegant bun than she usually wore, the gold braid on her uniform matching the gold aglets woven decoratively into her hair. When she shook her head in irritation, as she was currently doing, they caught the light and glimmered fetchingly. “You know, if it wasn’t for us Ferelden would be ass deep in demons still.” 

“I know, Princess.” Varric soothed, picking up her favorite necklace from her bedside table. The golden crest of her family flashed warmly in the early morning light. Varric carefully slipped his Father’s signet ring onto the chain. “And you’re going to politely remind them of that fact. Turn around.” 

Sighing heavily, Maria turned as instructed. Varric laid the gold chain around her neck and she frowned, reaching her hand up to touch the unfamiliar weight of his ring next to her golden crest. “Humor me.” He whispered in her ear as he clasped the necklace shut. “It’s lucky. Hawke had a one in a million shot at finding that thing again, you know.” 

“Kirkwall isn’t that big. One in ten thousand shot, at most.” Maria teased gently, dropping the chain underneath her tunic. “It’ll be alright, Varric. I’ll be alright.” 

He tugged her back flush to his chest and rested his forehead on her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist, letting both of his palms linger over her stomach. “As long as I’ve got both of you, I’m happy. We can sneak out the back right now if you want.” 

“Tempting.” Maria sighed, covering his hands with hers. “But then I’ll never get to see Josie talk circles around that Bann with the outrageous hat. Missing that would be a travesty.” 

She squeezed his hands reassuringly. Varric turned his cheek, nuzzling into the warm, soft skin of her neck and inhaling her sweet, spicy scent. Before he could say another word, the door swung open. Josephine, decked in her own red uniform, drew herself straight up as she entered. “Inquisitor, it is time.” She announced gravely. 

“The show must go on, Varric.” Maria whispered, easing away from his grip. “Find me afterwards and ask me to reconsider fleeing.” 

“Promise.” He gave her hand one last squeeze, smiling after her. 

 

He couldn’t stay in her rooms without her, imagining the worst, so he meandered into the gardens in search of equally miserable company. He didn’t have to look that hard. Thom and Dorian were both tucked into a corner, within earshot of the palace doors, staring glumly at two hands of cards. Without looking, Dorian waved his hand and one of the empty chairs slid backwards in blatant invitation. “How is she?” 

“A bit pissed off, to be honest.” Varric slumped into the chair immediately. 

“Can’t say I blame her.” Thom grumbled. “Fair return for saving their asses, isn’t it? Hauled up like a naughty child.” 

“They can’t let her continue on.” Dorian glared at his hand of cards. “Beautiful, clever, and insufferably good? The people of Thedas would fall on their swords for her, and the nobles know it. She’s dangerous.” 

“If you wouldn’t have written that book…” Thom growled. Varric snorted.

“I wrote it because she wanted me to, Hero. Somebody was going to tell her story, she wanted it to be me.” 

“The people loved her before the book.” Doran stated wearily. “That’s the only reason she hasn’t been thrown to the wolves yet. She is the savior of Thedas.” 

She was also the love of his life and the mother of his child. Thom’s salvation and Dorian’s truest friend. The woman under the Inquisitor’s mantle, complex and beguiling. “Well, we won’t let that happen Sparkler.” Varric said smoothly. 

Dorian smiled, nodding to himself. “No, we will not. I fold, you great lummox. Deal Varric in and give him a chance to win while Maria is distracted.” 

“While we’re doing that, I’ve got some questions about you and Tiny. Call it research….” 

 

“The Inquisitor left the Exalted Council.” 

Cassandra’s shadow loomed over them, blocking out the early afternoon sun. The three of them looked up, perplexed. “Left?” Dorian echoed. “Left to go where?” 

“She received a message during the talks and left. The representatives are… annoyed.” Cassandra’s tone left no doubt as to how annoyed they actually were. “I have been unable to locate her. I had thought perhaps one of you…” 

“We didn’t write the note, Seeker.” Varric laid his cards down quickly. She was certainly going to give him an ulcer and turn his hair grey. “She didn’t leave the palace, did she?”

“It is unlikely.” Cassandra sighed. “I will continue to search.” 

“Balls.” Thom sighed, pushing himself away from the table. 

Varric had to agree. His stomach was sinking rapidly to somewhere around his knees. Maria didn’t just abandon things on a whim, if she’d left the council there was a damned good reason. Knowing her, it was almost certainly both dangerous and weird. 

So he wasn’t surprised when both he and Cassandra turned the corner and saw her staring up at the terrace above her, a pool of fresh blood at her feet. “Maria.” Cassandra called sharply, almost a reprimand. “What in the Maker’s name…” 

“Oh! Good.” Maria flashed a grin in their direction, waving her hand up towards the terrace. “I need a boost. Help me out?” 

“No.” Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you up to?” 

“Who did you murder?” Varric indicated the fresh blood on the ground. 

“Nobody. Yet.” Maria clarified, pointing behind them. “I’ve got a dead Qunari soldier over there somewhere and a blood trail that’s telling me to go up.” 

“I’m sorry. I must have misheard you. Did you say Qunari?” Varric asked, closing his eyes. “What is a Qunari soldier doing in the winter palace?” 

“Good question, would love to figure it out, but I’m a bit too short to make it up there without a boost.” Maria tapped her foot impatiently, arching an eyebrow. “So whenever either of you are ready…” 

“Should you truly be climbing up walls…” Cassandra started. 

“Princess, I’ll go up…” Varric began at the same time. 

He looked askance at Cassandra, who blushed and dropped her eyes immediately to the ground. Varric swore and rounded on Maria, who bit her lip and shrugged apologetically. 

“Maybe we have different definitions of secret, Maria, but mine doesn’t generally involve the Seeker.” 

“It was an accident.” Maria admitted. “I thought you told her.” 

“I’m telling Hawke, then.” Varric stated decisively. “It isn’t fair if…” 

“You absolutely are not.” Maria scowled. “I love Hawke, I do, but she can’t keep a secret to save her life.” 

“She was an apostate for twenty years!” 

Maria placed her hands on her hips firmly. “Frankly, that’s miraculous. I’ve got no idea how she didn’t end up in the tower. She’s either the luckiest bitch in all of Thedas or Cullen was the worst Templar.”

Cassandra laughed, stiffled it into her glove as Varric felt his lips twitch with repressed humor. “Now can someone please help me get up onto the trellis?” Maria asked again.

“I can help!” Cole appeared as if out of nowhere at her elbow. 

“Thank you, Cole.” Maria declared impatiently. 

“Damnit, Maria.” She ignored him pointedly, stepping into Cole’s proffered hands and boosting herself up onto the trellis. She hauled herself up the vine-covered wood easily, levering herself up over the broken railing at the top. Cassandra made a noise of pure irritation in her throat. “I’ve got to go after her.” 

“But… you’re much heavier than she is.” Cole murmured, almost blushing. Cassandra scoffed, looking down at Varric. Varric was suddenly very frightened she might throw him up onto the terrace.

“Hey, guys?” Maria called down. “If you can get me Dorian and Vivienne… I’m going to need them.” 

“Cole, find them.” Cassandra instructed. Cole vanished again and Cassandra knelt, offering her hands. “Perhaps we should discuss the wisdom of conceiving a child prior to this political nightmare.” 

“Seemed like as good a time as any.” Varric said brightly, letting Cassandra boost him just enough so he could grab onto the hanging trellis. “Coming, Seeker?” 

Varric didn’t know what he expected to find at the top of the ledge. Shattered pieces of glass sparkled on the tile, dotted red with blood. He reached down to help haul Cassandra up before carefully picking his way through the glass and into the window. This apartment was empty, perhaps it once belonged to an unlucky courtier dead in the civil war. 

Well, it was empty of anything normal at any rate. No bed, no dresser, no overstuffed sofa. Instead, the room was dominated by a mirror larger than a qunari, the surface shimmering with colors and light, creating a halo around the Inquisitor as she stood in front of it, casting a long shadow behind her. She looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly. “This is much better than the Exalted Council. Tons more exciting.” 

Some of the worst moments of his life kept happening either in front of or because of those damn Elven mirrors. Daisy’s keeper, dead in a cave, lifeless eyes staring at the roots of deep mushrooms above them. Maria on her knees, glowing red lines racing down her arm, that damned Eluvian sparkling behind them as she asked him if he heard  _ them _ singing. 

She’d went into it once, and it turned to stone behind her, reflecting only his own fear and heartbreak. If he could dream, he’d have nightmares of that moment the rest of his life. A part of him, a very large part of him, wanted to reach out and pull her away. Bundle her in a cart, throw her on the first ship to Kirkwall, and let the rest of the world figure this one out. 

“Why would a Qunari come through an eluvian?” Cassandra asked tersely. 

“That’s the million sovereign question, isn’t it?” Maria mused. 

But she was the Inquisitor, and weird shit was just up her alley. “We’re going in there, aren’t we? Bianca is supposed to be on vacation and you’re supposed to be charming nobles. Can’t we just… chuck it in a bin?”  

“I think Bianca was getting frisky anyway, waiting for a good fight.” She teased. “Besides, we don’t have a rubbish bin big enough.” 

 

“Who thinks of these things?” Varric asked, holding one of the damn halla statues in his hand. “Make a magic bridge that can only be raised by finding four statues of elf horses. This is damn inconvenient.” 

“I think the ancient elves had a flair for the dramatic, in my opinion.” Dorian suggested. 

“You would know.” Cassandra muttered. 

“We have three of them. One more and we can go make friends with those not-so-friendly looking Qunari.” Maria’s voice was remarkably upbeat. “It’s just like old times again, right?” 

“We stumble face first into danger while Varric complains? Yes. It does seem remarkably familiar.” Dorian drawled. “All we’re missing is some red lyrium and a giant hole in the sky.” 

Maria ahead of them, her bow thrown jauntily over her shoulder as she wandered, turned the corner after looking around it. She only took two steps into the darkened room, Varric and Dorian on her heels, before everything went sideways.

Yep, just like old times. 

There was… something in the room. A vague shape that gave the impressions of trees, if you’d never seen a tree before. Maria approached it, and something… sparked. He wasn’t sure if the spark began near Maria’s hand, or inside the artifact. It threw a brief glare of bright light into the room. 

The brief spark became an inferno in a second, green light blazing to life around them. Varric, unfortunately, recognized the shade of green. Maria’s anchor glowed the same damn color. And that, that was the last cognizant thought he had before a scream pierced the air and his blood ran cold.

Maria stumbled, her unmarked hand grasping her other arm as she doubled over. Her shriek of pain echoed in his ears as he grabbed her other shoulder, pulling her flush to him. “Maria? Hey, hey!” 

“Fuck!” Maria swore. There were tears in her eyes. “Shit. That fucking hurt.” 

Dorian was on her other side, deftly unlacing her armor, removing leather and metal in a flurry of speed. Her breath was heavy on his neck as she leaned against Varric for support. Cassandra had her sword out and was scowling into the darkness, as if there were something there to fight. 

“I’ve got you, Princess.” Varric kissed her temple, her skin suddenly clammy. Dorian was gently tracing his fingers over Maria’s bare skin, glaring down at the thrumming anchor, the lines of green winding up over her elbow. 

Had it been over her elbow before? Varric didn’t think so. “Sparkler, what happened?” 

“I can’t entirely be certain, but I would very much like it to not happen again.” Dorian scowled up at the Elven… thing above them. “The anchor is Elven magic. These are Elven ruins. Perhaps some sort of interaction with lingering magic?” 

“Perhaps you should return to the Winter Palace.” Cassandra sheathed her sword, turning back to face Maria. 

“It’s fine.” Maria’s breathing had steadied and she pushed herself away from his side, looking with evident distaste down at her own glowing hand. 

“We’ll keep an eye on it.” Dorian mumbled, stroking his mustache grimly. “Does it seem to be… brighter to anyone else?” 

Varric thought so too. The whole room was easily illuminated now. Varric could see the last halla statue in the corner on a crumbling pedestal. “I’m an Inquisitor of many talents. Closer of rifts, defeater of darkspawn, handy torch…” Maria joked. 

“Possessor of an unbearable sense of humor.” Cassandra added, stepping forward to grab the last statue. The moment she touched it, a half dozen shades shimmered into existence.

“Nice going Seeker.” Varric groaned.

 

When the last shade dropped, Varric rounded on Maria. She was beside Dorian, wiping sweat from her brow with her gloved hand. The anchor, still glowing brightly, remained uncovered. They’d never gotten a chance to put her armor on back over it. “You need to go back to the Winter Palace.” 

“I need to figure out what those Qunari are up to.” Maria still had an arrow cocked in her bow. “Then we can go back to the Winter Palace.” 

Was shaking a pregnant woman as bad as shaking a baby? He suddenly felt a keen sympathy for Fenris. “Maria, I don’t know if you’ve realized it, but Qunari tend to be pretty big and we’re heading right for them with two archers, a mage, and Cassandra.” 

“I am your shield, as always, but I do not have eyes in the back of my head.” Cassandra reasoned, jabbing her sword in Maria’s direction. “If something were to happen to you…”

“I do have some elfroot potions.” Dorian stated helpfully. “Enough to take care of most injuries, I should think.” 

“I’m small, they’ll never be able to hit me.” Maria winked, sliding her arm through Dorian’s. “Come on.” 

Ulcers. He was going to get ulcers. 

“No.” Cassandra said stubbornly. “I will stay right here.” 

“Fine then.” Maria shrugged, continuing to walk forward. 

Cassandra very nearly threw her shield in fury, rounding on him with all the righteous indignation she could muster. “This is your fault.” 

“You’re just as bad at telling her no as I am!” Varric whispered back harshly. “Don’t get mad at me because she called your bluff.” 

“We should inform Dorian.” Cassandra said softly. “If he knows…” 

Dorian would very possibly drag her kicking and screaming back through the Eluvian. If anyone could…

“Hold onto that thought.” Varric grumbled. “We may need it.” 

 

The only lucky part was that the Qunari and the elven ghosts seemed to be locked in a life or death struggle of their own. Really, it was more mopping up survivors that saw them and yelled in their rough language. 

“They know you’re the Inquisitor.” Cassandra stated, helping Maria off a wall she’d perched herself on. “Why are they attacking on sight?”

“I did kind of get one of their ships blown up. I mean, I’m not particularly sorry about it, but I got the impression they were a bit miffed. They also sent an assassin or two after Bull.” Maria shook out her right arm irritably. The marks in her skin were still blazing. 

“Six assassins after Iron Bull.” Dorian corrected. “I’ve got a note here from one of the Qunaris. One of the notes is in Qunlat, but this one is in common. It’s talking about a plan to infiltrate the Winter Palace. Something called Dragon’s Breath?”    
“That… doesn’t sound good.” Varric watched as Maria rubbed a small circle on her abdomen. “Princess, you okay?” 

“Pulled a muscle, I think.” Maria said brightly. “We’ll have someone look at it.” 

“Bullshit.” Varric growled. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I’m the Inquisitor, Varric, where should I be?” She demanded just as fiercely. 

“Answering questions about your damned Inquisition? Eating chocolate and reading shitty romance novels? Maybe you could try knitting too, can’t be worse at it than Hawke was.” He placed his hand over hers, holding it tight. “Does it hurt? Are you okay?” 

“It’s a cramp, Varric. It’s nothing.” She soothed softly, placing her free hand over his jaw. “Hey, I wouldn’t risk this unless I needed to. I promise. This… if I uncover a Qunari plot and save the Exalted Council, my Inquisition is safe.” 

He didn’t give a fuck if the Inquisition was safe. As long as Maria was, it didn’t matter. He opened his mouth to tell her so. 

“As amusing as this drama is, I can’t help but feel as if I’m missing a vital piece of information.” Dorian’s eyes flicked between Varric and Maria. “What in Andraste’s sweet tits has you both so…” 

Maria’s jaw set in a firm line and she looked up at Varric. Varric glared down at her. 

“I swear to the Maker Varric, if you say one word I’ll…” Maria whispered. 

“She is expecting a child. Varric’s child.” 

Cassandra folded her arms, weathering Maria’s furious gaze without flinching. “She does not wish anyone to know until after the Council, for political reasons, but the situation…” 

“The  _ situation _ is unknown.” Maria hissed, jerking away from Varric. “We don’t know what the Qunari want, or why. A full scale invasion into the south, or is it something else? And what better chance to prove the Inquisition has a purpose beyond…” 

“Fasta vass!” Dorian swore and shook his head. “The Inquisition is not more important than you are. I cannot believe we allowed…” 

Maria’s face turned to ice and she pinned Dorian with it. “Nobody.” She said slowly. “Has allowed me to do  _ anything. _ In case any of you have forgotten.” 

With that, she turned easily on her heel, striding toward the glowing Eluvian. 

“Venhedis.” Dorian cursed again. “This is a disaster!” 

“No.” Varric corrected. “It wasn’t… damnit. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” 

“How was it supposed to be?” Dorian asked, waving his hand after Maria. “Did you honestly believe she’d  _ ever  _ stay at home and read romance novels when the whole world is howling for her help?” 

No, Varric really hadn’t believed that either. The same way he didn’t ever truly believe Bianca could give up her forge or her family. 

Varric loved women who were who they were, no matter the cost. 


	9. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria and Varric attempt to negotiate a compromise. Dorian frets.

She grasped the anger tightly, clutched it like a lifeline. Fury was easier than fear. The fear would hold her tight, strangle her where she stood if she let it. The only thing to do, the only thing she could think to do, was the keep fucking moving. Anger helped with that, spurred her forward through the halls of Halamshiral. 

Allowed. Who the fuck thought they needed to  _ allow _ her anything?

The Inquisition soldiers guarding her room didn’t bat an eye at the fact her armor was covered head to toe in gore, that she was missing a glove, that her  _ fucking _ hand was glowing like a drunk mage on Satinalia. “Get Cullen.” She snapped waspishly, stalking into the room. 

“Yes, your worship.” One of the soldiers saluted smartly and sprinted off. The door slammed shut behind her. 

The first thing she saw was one of Varric’s books. She fought the urge to throw it. 

“Oh for… what happened to you?” Lottie asked, taking her appearance in with a look that was much more exasperated than anything else. 

“Oh you know.” Maria began breezily. “It’s a Tuesday. Do you think you could rustle up a bath at some point in time?” 

“Should I get a healer?” Lottie asked, dropping a stack of correspondence on Maria’s bed. 

That was an interesting question, one she wasn’t entirely sure she knew the answer to. Her hand still felt like she’d submerged it in boiling water up to her elbow, but that wasn’t entirely unusual. 

The worrying twinge in her abdomen accompanying the burning in her arm caused more alarm than she frankly wanted to admit. “Think you can find a discrete midwife?” 

To Lottie’s credit, her face continued to be carefully neutral. “I know three that served ladies of the court in difficult situations, but their services will cost you dearly. Particularly if you plan to buy their silence.” 

“I’m sure I can afford it.” Maria grumbled, sitting heavily in one of the overstuffed and bizarrely uncomfortable armchairs and tugging off her boots. “Or Varric can.” 

“No healer?” Lottie asked again, her tone making it quite clear that she would have preferred to be fetching a healer instead of a midwife. Maria, unfortunately, spent enough time around mages to know that she’d feel them drawing their mana through her very bones like her own blood through a sieve. She’d felt that way since she’d woken up with the damned anchor in her hand. 

That was not a sensation she wanted to add to the agony racing up her skin. “No healer.” She confirmed tersely. Lottie sighed, vanishing out the servant’s entrance in moments. Just in time to miss Varric strolling through the front, his face stony with masked irritation. 

“Cullen’s on his way and I don’t have time to fight…” She started, tossing both boots across the room. 

The rest of her sentence was lost by the quick, uncharacteristically rough hand in her hair, tugging her face up. Then Varric claimed her lips in mid-sentence, forcing her into silence. There was nothing of his gentleness in the storm of passion he’d summoned up. She could feel her lips bruising, swelling, under his assault. She nipped his bottom lip in sweet revenge and he growled, primal and possessive. 

Maker, she was still furious with him, but it was getting harder to remember why as he leaned over the chair, both his hands clawed into the stuffed arms like a man barely clinging to sanity. He pulled only a hairsbreadth away from her lips, just enough to whisper against them. “Give me  _ one _ reason I shouldn’t call Bull up here to tie you to this damned chair.” 

She had a thousand, but the answer that escaped her was the one she knew would make him laugh. “I’ve always been amazing at slipping out of ropes.”  

He did chuckle and she allowed herself a moment to feel vindicated as his death grip on the chair loosened. He backed far enough away to stare into her eyes. Her reflection danced in his whiskey colored depths. “Princess, we need to compromise on this somehow or you’re going to end up killing me.” 

A momentary rush of panic clawed at her throat, the way it always did when she thought of something happening to him. She’d seen Varric die once in the nightmarish future Redcliffe. A demon throwing his limp body like a broken doll at her feet.

Varric thought their first kiss took place in the stairwell at the foot of her bedroom while she was drunk off her ass after celebrating their first dragon slaying adventure with Bull. For him, at least, it was true. The Varric that had kissed her before dying to buy her time was a memory only she and Dorian shared, a memory they both silently promised to never talk about. 

Bianca’s last stinging words echoed in her ears. 

_ Try not to get him killed like Fynn Dunhark, hm? _

Maria promised herself after Redcliffe that nothing would harm Varric. She intended to keep that promise. 

“Varric…” She sighed. Any other words she may have said were captured by his soft mouth, his clever tongue battering her lips open. She almost allowed herself to drown in him, almost. Instead, she pushed against his broad chest. “Stop, you’re trying to kiss me into compliance and it isn’t going to work.” 

“Au contraire.” He whispered with another rich, dark chuckle. Like coffee sweetened with sugar. “Not compliance. Compromise.” 

Varric made it seem easy. She wanted to believe it was too. “How?” She huffed irritably. 

“Let’s start with abandoning these little stealth strike teams you like.” Varric began affably. “Whole team, or at the very least we take Tiny, Hero, and the Seeker. They’re all more than capable of forming a solid shield around you.” 

That would mean forgetting all possible strategies that involved sneaking up on the opponents. Bull and Cass could be quiet when they needed to, but Thom was utterly incapable, and no matter how quietly Bull moved, he remained the size of a small mountain. 

“Do that and for fucks sake stay out of melee range, and I’ll…” Varric sighed, moved one hand from the arm of the chair and pinched the bridge of his broken nose. “I’ll continue to remind Cassandra that she trusts you for several very good reasons, most of which have to do with your sound judgement, and that we need to support you on this.” 

“Do you support me?” She moved her hand up and along the hard planes of his chest, letting her palm rest over the beating cage of his heart. 

Maria thought herself good at seeing through Varric’s bullshit, but she couldn’t spot a lie in his mournful gaze. “Andraste help me, but I do. If this is what you need to do… I guess we’re doing it.” 

Far from a ringing endorsement, but she’d take it. 

 

_ Animals struck out fiercely when they found themselves cornered and injured. That’s why she kept her back to the door and her face pointed firmly in Fynn’s direction. She thought there was more than enough room between the two of them to give her time to flee, if she needed it. He hadn’t moved since she’d entered though, and he was completely alone.  _

_ He also looked like he’d just crawled out of the bottle, which made her heart ache just a bit. He reminded her of a kicked puppy. “Cheer up.” She soothed gently, leaning back against one of the low tables. “Better men have lost a hell of a lot more to me in card games. I briefly owned a vineyard in Antiva.”  _

_ Nanna made her give that one back. If she ever learned about this stunt, it would almost certainly be the same song and dance. Zarra Cadash didn’t believe in rocking the boat just to make a point, she said that was not how one lived a long life. Maria conceded she may be right, but…  _

_ “So now you own me.” Fynn spat, toasting her with a flask. “Cheers to my foolishness and all the blood on my hands.”  _

_ He looked so miserable that her glow of victory wilted a bit more inside her chest. “Listen, I know you won’t believe me, but I wasn’t completely lying before. Most of… most of the muscle we hire come with their own weapons. They prefer it that way, but our miners in the deep roads only have what we give them. They’re casteless from Orzammar, and…”  _

_ “Don’t make yourself out to be a good samaritan.” Fynn growled, slammed his flask down on the table. “You’re using them the same way you’re using me.”  _

_ The table shook when he slammed into it. Maria stiffened, stood up a bit straighter. “I don’t want to bleedin’ own you.” She swore, pushed a few stray strands of hair away from her forehead. “It doesn’t matter to you one way or the other, but if you’d have just done things the easy way…”  _

_ “The easy way isn’t usually the right way.”  _

_ She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, eased her balled up fists and exhaled. When she opened her eyes, Fynn was staring at her. “How did you even figure out who I was?” She demanded.  _

_ His face instantly tore itself between embarrassment and anger. Immediately, Maria felt her jaw pop open. “I simply wanted… the contract was unclear in parts, and… I simply wished to meet with...”  _

_ The contract hadn’t been vague, she’d written it herself. Fynn went looking for Lika Haraar because he wanted to see her again. “Balls.” She muttered, rubbing her forehead. “Listen, I’m flattered, but that is not going to happen.”  _

_ “Obviously.” Fynn snapped with a scowl.  _

_ A part of Maria, a part she beat down viciously, almost felt like that was a dare. “Fulfill my contract, you can have your shop back, free and clear. You’ll never have to see me again.”  _

_ “That simple?” Fynn asked. _

_ “Obviously.” She replied, twitching her braid over her shoulder and turning on her heel and stomping out of the shop.  _

 

_ After that, she made a point to drop in every few days. Mostly by herself, but sometimes with Bea in tow. She told herself it was important to make sure he was actually working on her order instead of delaying or making excuses, but Fynn seemed to have resigned himself.  _

_ Still, she found herself perched on his table with her legs swinging in the air below her at least twice a week.  _

_ “Don’t you have anything better to do?” He groused, mopping the sweat from his forehead as he dunked a red hot blade into cool water, sending steam rising into the air. She could feel it curling the ends of her hair.  _

_ “I cleared my schedule.” She hadn’t, really. In fact, she needed to be going or she was going to be late meeting a contact. “How does a deshyr’s son end up getting so good at this?” _

_ “How does a Carta heiress become so bleedin’ annoying?”  _

_ She grinned, leaning back on her hands. “Practice.”  _

_ He very nearly laughed and Maria ignored the small thrill it gave her. “This is simpler than the guild.” Fynn admitted gravely. _

_ Lots of things were simpler than the guild, but Maria didn’t correct him. “Can I try pouring the metal out?”  _

_ “No.”   _

_ “Spoiled sport.” She huffed. Fynn smirked in spite of himself. _

_ She looked down, only for a moment, but when she looked up she was perched on Varric’s desk in the Viscount’s library, pages of his writing scattered everywhere. The sun warmed her back when she slipped from the solid wood. “Varric?” She called. Her voice echoed across the empty space, bounced off bookshelves and tables.  _

_ Instead of summoning Varric, her voice called forth another figure. Small, slipping around the bookcases with a bright grin, sun bouncing off her gold hair. It was the same shade of Varric’s, spun into a halo around an angelic face, with eyes as soft gray as the sky after a spring storm. Bea’s eyes had been that soft and young, once. Before Hercinia burned away the last of her childhood. “Mommy! You’re home!”  _

_ The girl didn’t hesitate, throwing herself into Maria’s arms, where she fit perfectly, nuzzling into the empty space between her shoulder and neck like it was her second home. Her hair against Maria’s palms was spun silk when she smoothed down the back of it without thinking.  _

_ The words fell from her lips, choked with tears, before she could even consider them. “Of course I’m home, love.”  _

_ “Daddy wrote me a new book. Come see.” The child implored, tugging impatiently on Maria’s hand. It was the hand with the anchor, but when she looked down, her skin was whole and unblemished, with the child’s hand encasing one of her fingers.  _

_ At her back, the sun vanished as if behind a cloud, throwing the library into gloom. Maria bent her head to look over her shoulder at the open windows… _

_ “Don’t!” The child cried, placing a restraining hand on her cheek. “Don’t look or it’ll know we’re in here.”  _

_ “It’s only a cloud.” Maria soothed, moving the hand from her cheek and encasing it softly within her own. “See…” _

_ She turned, meeting the glare of six red eyes peering through the open library. A wolf the size of the keep itself, silent and unmoving, met Maria’s bewildered gaze. Then a sharp jolt of fear made her clasp the hand inside hers tighter.  _

_ But there wasn’t any small hand tucked safely in hers, not any longer. Maria looked down to find ashes drifting through her clenched fingers, blowing away in a breeze. Everything seemed to be falling, fading, the shelves and books, Varric’s unfinished drafts, the tables and chairs, even the windows separating her from the beast.  _

_ The anchor in her palm flared to life again, pulsing through her skin like fire, encasing her whole arm in glowing green light. The pain took her breath away, made her sink to her knees and…  _

 

“Hey, hey.” Varric’s fingers pushed back damp strands of her hair from her face. “C’mon baby, it’s just a bad dream.” 

It wasn’t, she could still taste ash on her tongue and the bolt of pain racing through her arm nearly made her whimper. Water sloshed out onto the expensive Orlesian carpet, which made her remember exactly where she was. 

Cullen had come and gone and the servants brought her a bath. She’d been listening to Varric read while she soaked, had closed her eyes for only a moment. Gooseflesh prickled over her skin at the sudden realization of the cooled water against her bare skin. Varric pressed a searing kiss against her temple, carefully lifting her damp hair away from her neck so it wouldn’t drag in the water. “You let me fall asleep.” She accused. 

“Guilty. Thank you Lottie.” The elven woman was standing beside the tub, a towel as large as a bed sheet held open. “We were about to wake you up before you started making noises anyway. Lottie said the midwife is on her way.” 

“Thank you Lottie.” Maria repeated, trying to ignore the bright flares of pain in her fingertips. The water sloughed off of her skin as she stood. Varric chivalrously helped her out as Lottie tenderly wrapped the towel around her. Both of them, without saying a word, avoided the arm carrying the anchor. 

“Odd dreams are common when you’re expecting.” Lottie stated nonchalantly. “It is nothing to concern yourself over.” 

Maria shared a skeptical look with Varric before deciding it wasn’t worth pointing out that the fact that she, short and stout and utterly dwarfy, could still barely comprehend dreaming at all. Sometimes she suspected Lottie forgot she wasn’t just a short human. 

“I tried to send Dorian away. Three times.” Varric murmured into her ear apologetically. “He’s on the terrace. Said something about the scandal if he was found in the Inquisitor’s room while she was snoring in the bath.” 

“I do not snore.” Maria pulled the towel around her defensively. From out on the terrace, she heard a rather dignified snort of laughter. Three discreet knocks at the servant’s door drew her attention and Lottie rushed to it, opening it quietly. 

“I have to admit, didn’t think I’d see the day when a holy organization needed a midwife.” The woman who entered smiled knowingly at Lottie. She was very human, perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Maria was, with lovely blonde hair twisted at the nape of her neck. 

“Life, it seems, happens no matter what.” Lottie stated dryly, ushering the woman in. Her skirts swept across the floor before she came to a screeching halt, staring wide eyed at Maria and Varric. 

“But… Maker’s breath! You’re  _ her _ .” The woman stated dumbly before dropping into a rushed curtsey. “Apologies, milady Inquisitor. I didn’t… Lottie didn’t say it was actually you! I assumed your ambassador, perhaps, or…” The woman stuttered to an awkward stop. 

That would be the day, Josephine involved in an illicit pregnancy. Maria fancied herself a gambling woman and she definitely didn’t like the odds on that one. “Please don’t curtsey, I’m in a towel for the Maker’s sake. Thank you for coming.” 

Dorian nearly stiffled his snort of laughter that time. The woman in front of her didn’t catch it regardless, staring at her wide-eyed, eyes flicking to the pulsing mark on her hand anxiously before she took a deep breath. “Of course, of course milady. It is an honor. Are you…?” 

“I believe so. A bit over two months.” She swung her arm in Varric’s direction as he hovered at her left. “Master Tethras is the father and we’re thrilled, but trying to keep it private.” 

“Of course. The game can be… unkind.” The woman’s eyes sparkled sympathetically. “There may not be much I can tell you about your state, but if you sit on the bed…” 

One awkward examination and several probing questions later, Maria finally put her robe on, tying it with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. “It’s very early, milady, but all the signs are there. I would say it is safe to assume you’ll be welcoming a little one in seven months.” 

“And the pain…?” Varric questioned, narrowing his eyes. The woman laughed, shook her head. 

“It is fine to be nervous.” She soothed, smoothing her green skirts over her knees. “But some cramping is not cause for concern. Your womb is growing and changing, I would not be worried unless blood accompanies it.” 

“I have already stopped her drinking and her morning coffee.” Lottie offered. 

“You should not move anything heavy as well, milady. And stay away from any poisons or alchemy.” The woman continued.

“I suppose we won’t be seeing Sera for awhile, huh?” Varric asked. 

“But nothing’s wrong?” Maria persisted. 

“Nothing is wrong as far as I can tell.” The woman stated, rising and bobbing another unnecessary curtsy. “Feel free to send for me, milady, if you ever have questions. I am at your service.” 

Varric pulled a bag of coin as if from thin air, holding it out. The woman’s smile faltered and she placed her hand over the bag, pushing it back towards Varric. 

“No, milady.” She said quietly. “My brother and sister-in-law, they fled the violence in the Dales. If not for your Inquisition, I do not know what have happened to them and their babes. I owe you a debt, Inquisitor. We all do.” 

“I insist. If you don’t want it, give it to someone else that needs it.” Maria stared into the woman’s eyes. “What’s your name?” 

“Claude, milady.” The woman smiled, shy and almost sweet as she very slowly took the bag from Varric. “I’ll ask the Maker to continue to bless you, your worship.” 

Lottie very carefully steered Claude away and Maria arched an eyebrow at Varric, a shared expression of amusement and disbelief. 

“And that.” Dorian emerged as the door shut behind Claude. “Is the reason everyone here hates you. It’s enough to make a man retch.” 

“What can I say, Dorian?” Maria smoothed her robe down gingerly over her stomach. “I’m just a Carta rat with a heart of gold.” 

Dorian laughed, shaking his head and swirling the blood red wine in his glass. His expression grew serious as he stared into the liquid. Maria prepared herself for one of Dorian’s melancholy rants, but instead he looked up with a small sentimental smile. “Your sense of timing, as always, is deplorable. Regardless, I am so very happy for you my friend.”    
“No prophecies of personal doom or warnings of impending disaster?” Maria clutched the robe over her heart in shock. “Varric, are we certain that’s Dorian?” 

“He got it all out of his system while you were napping.” Varric advised. 

“Besides, why dramatically predict the worst when we already have a disaster on our hands?” Dorian asked, collapsing into the uncomfortable chair. “Bull looked at that note we found in the Crossroads. It’s still cryptic, but something is happening at a mine we can access through the eluvians. Something meant to target the south.” 

“Does he have any ideas?” Maria sipped at the water in her hand as Dorian sighed.

“Yes. And they’re all alarming.” Dorian sighed. “I suppose trying to convince you to allow us to investigate without you is out of the question?” 

“You know me so well, Dorian.” Maria ignored the shared pained glance between Dorian and Varric. “I think we can investigate at first light, should I count the two of you in?” 

“Always.” Varric sighed. 


	10. To Hold Her Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deep Roads are shitty and Varric hates everything (except the Inquisitor and hearing himself talk)

“I must love you.” Varric groaned as he gazed bleakly into the darkness surrounding them. 

“I thought that was evident.” The shadow he knew was Maria called back from the opposite wall. 

“We’re in the deep roads. Again.” He felt like the entire weight of the Earth was pressing down upon him. “I feel myself getting dwarfier by the minute. Did I just sprout a beard?” 

Maria laughed, the sound soft in the echoing cavern. They were waiting for Sera and Bull to return from scouting ahead, but while they waited all Varric could consider was the urgent feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong. 

Maria’s laughter made it a bit better, not much, but a bit. 

“Yes, yes. You hate the deep roads. And caves, and the outdoors.” Cassandra grunted in exasperation. Varric couldn’t see her rolling her eyes, but he knew she was. 

“Also quiet. Most kinds of smells. Rain. Water in general…” Thom stood closer, Varric could make out his shadow ticking off things on his hand. 

“Orlesian cafes, taverns that are too tidy, slopes of greater than ten degrees…” Dorian continued. Maria’s laughter took on a hysterical edge as she tried to stifle it. 

“And Orlesians, Fereldens, Nevarrans, mages, templars, the  _ entire _ Merchant’s Guild, nugs…” Vivienne chimed in. 

“I’m going to choke!” Maria wheezed, breathless with laughter. “Stop!” 

“What are we doing?” Bull reappeared in the cave opening with Sera at his elbow.  

“Listing things Varric hates.” Dorian quipped. “Any additions?” 

“Oh.” Bull paused thoughtfully. “Has anyone mentioned uneven ground?” 

Maria snorted into her hand. 

“You’re a damn traitor, Princess.” Varric accused, crossing his arms over his chest in faux anger. 

“He hates anything that isn’t Quizzie, her tits, and hearing himself talk.” Sera stated, her teeth catching what feeble light they had and shining like a mouthful of knives in her mad grin. 

“Look, I have to complain or you’ll forget I’m here and trip over me! I’m providing a service!” Varric reasoned. 

“Safe to turn on a bit of light, boss.” Bull said warmly. Maria was still giggling as she tugged her glove off, casting their small alcove into sickly green light. She wiped tears from her eyes, cheeks flushed with delight as she shrugged apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, that was the damn funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Flashing green. Pain racks her in the night, pulls her out of bed. She never sleeps. Why isn’t it over when she’s won?” Cole whispered cryptically. 

“Huh?” Thom blurted out. Cole’s pale eyes caught the light as he looked around at all of them.

“Things Varric hates.” Cole said softly. “Right?” 

The silence suddenly felt heavy and awkward, nobody making eye contact with anyone else. Bull coughed, the sound reverberating against the stone. 

“So, who wants to talk about how these are the strangest deep roads I’ve ever seen?” Maria asked brightly. Everyone began to thaw, casting surreptitious glances at each other as Maria sailed past them, raising her hand to look at the walls. “They’re awfully dark.” 

“We are underground, yeah?” Sera asked, drifting to Maria’s left as they walked. 

“She’s right.” Varric needed to talk too, or everyone was going to keep staring at him with that unnerving expression torn between pity and sadness. “Usually they have… lava or something in the walls.” 

“Ancient dwarves were nothing if not crafty.” Maria chirped. “Nanna used to say the lights still worked in the thaigs that fell to darkspawn and that they would for a thousand years.” 

“How in the world did your grandmother know that?” Dorian sniffed in disdain. 

“Hell if I know. Somebody probably told her when she was a girl in Orzammar.” Maria shrugged carelessly. “No idea if it’s true, but if it is I hope the darkspawn appreciate the mood lighting.” 

“So why are these tunnels dark?” Thom asked tersely. 

“If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t think it was so odd, would I?” Maria asked, pausing to stare up at a statue. She lifted her hand even higher, casting a large wolf into sharp relief. “Well, the fuck is that doing here?”

“That’s elfy shite.” Sera twitched her nose in irritation. 

“That… doesn’t belong here. At all.” Varric scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That… doesn’t even look like a dwarf carved it.” 

“It looks like all the ones in the dales.” Maria pursed her lips thoughtfully. “There’s an inscription here, but it’s in elven.” 

“Shame Solas vanished like he did.” Dorian muttered, appraising the statue as well. “It would be a remarkable find if we knew what it was doing here.” 

“I’ll add it to the list of things to yell at him about when he shows back up.” Sparks snapped from Maria’s palm and she froze momentarily. 

There was her tell. Maria, who constantly fidgeted, flitted from one thing to another like a ball of energy, was only still when she couldn’t trust herself to do anything else. 

If she moved, she might scream, and it broke Varric’s heart. He waited another beat until she relaxed, worrying her bow with her left hand. “C’mon Princess, let’s go find us some angry Qunari.” 

Varric met the concerned gazes of Cassandra and Dorian behind Maria’s back and shook his head slowly. He promised to follow her lead, and that’s what he’d do. Even if it killed him. 

 

_ Sweetheart, you look a little tired _ __   
_ When did you last eat? _ __   
_ Come in and make yourself right at home _ __   
_ Stay as long as you need _ __   
_ Tell me, is something wrong? _ __   
_ If something's wrong you can count on me _ __   
_ You know I'll take my heart clean apart _ _   
_ __ If it helps yours beat

 

They were using gatlock to mine lyrium. Varric would freely admit he wasn’t an expert in mining lyrium, although he’d helped smuggle it from time to time, but even he knew blowing up lyrium was a bad idea. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Maria glared up at the stooped figure of the templar, hands on her hips. “And you helped them?” 

“No!” The man protested. “Not… not with that. I didn’t… sweet Maker. They brought in these other qunari and elves, but they… they don’t talk. They don’t do anything. They just mine the lyrium.”

Maria frowned and looked up at Bull. Bull’s face was dark when he answered. “Qamek. It renders you into a mindless slave. Viddath-bas, the Qun uses them for manual labor.” 

“There was a cave-in from the gatlock.” The templar babbled. “About twenty of the viddath-bas were stuck. We couldn’t get them out, so the Viddasala boarded up that part of the mine and left them!” 

“Left them?” Dorian repeated, aghast. Iron Bull grunted. Maria went several shades paler and Varric reached for her waist without hesitation. 

“I could hear them moaning…” The templar continued, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I could…” 

“Stop!” Maria ordered sharply, gray eyes glinting in the green light from the palm of her hand. “Stop it. I don’t want to hear it.” 

The tremor of horror in the back of Maria’s voice raised the hair on the back of his neck. Maria wasn’t one to betray raw vulnerability in any shape or form, the only time he’d heard her so frightened was the one time they’d stood in the nightmare demon’s realm staring up at a burning city. 

“Inquisitor, what would you have us do with him?” Cassandra asked brusquely. 

“Get out.” Maria snapped, jerking her head towards the Eluvian. “Just get out.” 

The templar fled into the tunnels and Sera glared after him, blowing a satisfying raspberry at his retreating back. 

“The viddath-bas, boss… they’re like your tranquil here in the south.” Bull continued uneasily. “The Qun wouldn’t think twice of leaving them to die. They’re… a tool.” 

And the Qun discarded tools with no life left in them. 

“They’re people.” Maria snapped, flexing the fingers on her right hand, casting waving rippling shadows on the cave walls. “And we’re going to stop this shit before anyone else gets hurt.” 

As if anything was ever that easy. 

 

_ Like a force to be reckoned with _ __   
_ A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss _ __   
_ I will love you with every single thing I have _ __   
_ Like a tidal wave, we'll make a mess _ __   
_ Calm waters, if that serves you best _ __   
_ I will love you without any strings attached _ __   
_ It's okay if you can't catch your breath _ _   
_ __ You can take the oxygen straight out of my own chest

 

“Well, gatlock is quite explosive. It would be a simple matter to destroy their supply, my dear.” Vivienne arched one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Without gatlock, their lyrium mining operation would be severely compromised.” 

“Gatlock isn’t easy to make, boss.” Iron Bull grunted as he kicked a dead qunari over the edge of the great chasm. “Take them forever to build it back up again.” 

“Perhaps we should discuss what would happen if we ignited this much gatlock.” Cassandra reasoned. “I fear these tunnels would collapse.” 

“Slowly enough for us to escape, I think. It would be a bonus if it slowed down our not-so-friendly pursuers.” Dorian mused. 

“If everything goes smoothly.” Varric mopped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Just, because, y’know… it usually doesn’t.” 

“As much as I hate to admit it, the dwarf has a point.” Thom peered at the explosive barrels. “It’s a gamble, but I can’t see as if we have any other option. Not like we can station soldiers down here to hold the mines. The Qunari would fight back like a bear protecting its den and we don’t have enough troops at the palace.” 

“You’re right.” Cole said quietly, fiddling with his blades. “They’d die.” 

Nobody said anything about anyone dying. Which meant Cole plucked that cheerful thought out of somebody’s head. Somebody… 

“What about the miners?” Maria asked quietly. 

Nobody answered. Nobody had a good answer. If they collapsed the tunnels, the Qunari soldiers would at least have a chance at escape, but they’d abandon their miners to their fates. Miners who may not leave their tasks, even as they were buried beneath the rubble. 

The tranquil in the gallows didn’t flee Meredith when she began to slaughter them. The ones they didn’t rescue in time met their untimely ends at the edge of templar blades. They didn’t fight back. They didn’t beg or plead. 

“It’s the only way, boss. If you don’t destroy this operation, they’ll come back.” Bull hunkered down beside her, staring into her shining eyes. “If there was another way, but this is the easiest…” 

“That doesn’t make it right.” Cole whispered. “Swings his hammer and glares, asks me who I hurt. Asks if it matters to me. Unease twists, churns, and…” 

“Kid.” Varric warned when Maria’s eyes squeezed shut against the sound of his voice.

“There’s another way.” She stated firmly, but there was a thread of desperation in it. “Another plan, and…” 

“They’re dead already.” Bull pointed out bluntly. “And you can’t save them, boss.” 

“They are not!” She hissed, and for a moment fury made her appear taller than the Qunari crouched beside her. “They’re not dead, Bull, and you want to kill them!” 

“Hawke always said she’d rather die than be made tranquil.” Varric cut in softly. “It’s… shitty, but that’s what she always said.” 

“Mercy.” Cole whispered softly. “Maybe.” 

Maria stalked away from them, from Bull’s glinting eye and Vivienne’s quiet sympathy. Dorian flinched when she kicked a crate hard enough to put a solid hole through the thin wood. 

“And could you have done it, Varric?” Maria rounded on him with her clenched fists and chin jutting out in determination. 

“I shot Bartrand.” Varric dropped his eyes to the ground beneath his boots. He could still hear the thud of the bolt in Bartrand’s chest. “So, I suppose anything’s possible.” 

He would never forget the shock on Bartrand’s face when he looked down to find himself pierced through. He’d drunk himself stupid over three days with Hawke, crying into her shoulder more often than not. 

“He left you in the deep roads, he was mad. These people are  _ innocent _ .” Maria pleaded. 

“He was my brother.” Varric sighed, adjusting the crossbow over his back. Varric had loved him, hated him too, but...

“You’re asking me to kill these people the same way my parents died.” Her voice cracked on the last word, a surge of tears springing into her gray eyes. “I can’t let that happen.” 

She’d been six when her parents died. Trapped in a lyrium mine, abandoned by their crew, suffocating miles beneath the surface. How she ever summoned up the courage to keep going into the deep roads amazed and humbled him. Varric certainly didn’t know if he could have managed it. 

She had her unmarked hand over her abdomen, shielding their unborn child from the harsh world, from this terrible decision. Varric wanted to shield them both, drag them back to Kirkwall, sit Maria in the garden and let the sunshine on her face. She’d never find herself back in the tunnels that reminded her of death and grief. Their daughter would blossom in the sunlight, take root in his home, grow up alongside Fledgling. Just the way he wanted. 

“I am sorry, Inquisitor.” Cassandra gripped her sword tightly in her hand and looked out over the mines below them. “I do not believe there is any other option.” 

Maria shook her head, stubborn and defensive, biting her lip as she followed Cassandra’s gaze. 

“Quizzie, if we don’t stop ‘em, they’ll keep digging this shite up. And they’ll use it to do… whatever this dragon’s breath thing is.” Sera waved her hand in the air. “Those people, up there? In the real world? Those are yer people. We’re here for them, they believe in you.” 

“We do not make the rules of war, Maria.” Dorian commented somberly. “I am sorry, truly. But this… it isn’t your fault. I can light them, you do not need to fire the shot, my friend.” 

Varric would do it himself if it needed done, but Maria shook her head again, more slowly this time. She reached for her bow and arrows with agonizing slowness. “No.” She said dully, her lashes slicked to sharp points where tears had slicked them. “It’ll be on my hands, not yours.” 

“Everyone needs to get back.” Bull advised, indicating a spot he thought save several yards away. Dorian slicked flames over the shaft of one of Maria’s arrows, gently laying his palm on her shoulder for a second before her began to join the others. 

“You should get back too.” Maria whispered, unable to meet his eyes as she drew the bowstring back. The fire reflected like madness in her grey eyes, glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t want you to be a part of this.” 

Her arms trembled as she held her position, a shudder that racked her whole body for a moment, made the arrow wobble precariously. “I’m staying with you.” Varric placed his hand gently on the small of her back. “No matter what, Maria, I’m with you.”

With both of them, right where he was supposed to be. 

A single tear tracked down her cheek, through the grime and dust from the cave. She took a deep breath and the arrow stilled. All was heart wrenchingly quiet for a moment before the arrow flew, straight and perfect just as almost all her shots were. He pulled her back the instant the arrow left her bow, curled his body around hers to shield her from the explosion. So she didn’t need to feel it, so she didn’t have to see it. 

Nobody could hear the sob escape her chest over the rush of sound, the cracking of stone, but Varric felt it. He tightened his arms around her, ignored the flare of heat from the fire behind them and pressed his lips against her hair. 

 

_ I know exactly how your rule goes _ __   
_ Put my mask on first _ __   
_ No, I don't want to talk about myself _ __   
_ Tell me where it hurts _ __   
_ I just want to build you up, build you up _ __   
_ 'Til you're good as new _ __   
_ And maybe one day, I'll get around _ _   
_ __ To fixing myself, too

 

They couldn’t have known about the water. It could have been an underground lake, perhaps a reservoir of some kind, or even the damned ocean. Whatever it was, the water cascading down into the cavern presented an unaccounted for obstacle. Because, Varric noted to himself sourly, nothing ever went according to plan. 

But the worst part, by far, were the screams. The rushing water took everything in its wake, qunari soldiers, the miners, crates, and destroyed mining equipment. The screams of the people drowning, panicked and desperate, echoed long after they slipped through the Eluvian and back into the crossroads. 

They all looked worse for wear. Bull nursed a nasty gash over one of his shoulders that was being lovingly tended to by Dorian. Cassandra lost one of her gauntlets pulling a rather sodden Cole from the water. Vivienne’s hat went missing right after the third explosion, leaving her gloriously bald head bare. Thom carried Sera, whose ankled had snapped loudly as they clambered past the dead templar that apparently hadn’t made it out fast enough. 

Varric himself was soaked up to the top of his chest hair and he doubted he’d ever dry out. His greater concern, however, had been pulling Maria through the Eluvian. She’d paused, looked back in despair over the destruction they wrought. Varric, cursing inventively, pulled her through as the water rose up to their knees. 

Compared to the deep roads, the crossroads were silent as a tomb. There was no rushing water, no dying qunari, no crumbling stone. Only them, their ragged breathing, steady drips of water falling on the stones below them from their soaked clothing. 

Maria choked on the first sob, collapsing to the ground in front of the mirror even as he tried to hold her up. The second sob echoed loudly in the quiet space, bounced off the ancient rocks and rose into the air. 

“It isn’t your fault.” Varric whispered furiously into her hair, sinking to his knees with her. “Maria, it isn’t…” 

She shook in his arms even when he wrapped them around her and held her tightly. Her glowing fist beat weakly against his chest, the spirals of green magic rising up over her elbow, shimmering faintly under her pale skin. “There’s nothing you could have done to save them. You did what you had to do.” Varric continued, allowing her fist to connect with his chest again, feeling the anger and despair rising through her like a flood. 

At least a flood was quicker than allowing them to suffocate or starve. A small mercy for the poor sods they’d left behind.

Cole’s hat dripped the most water onto the ground, rivulets that ran from him across the ground as he knelt beside Maria in concern. “Bloody hands.” Cole whispered, taking her free and unmarked hand. “Bloody hands are not a mother’s hands. But they are yours, and you tried. You always try.” He whispered. Maria sobbed harder into Varric’s chest, falling limply against him as she wailed. 

Dorian engulfed her from the other side, throwing his arms around her and tangling himself with Varric, pressing a kiss to the side of her head in a matter that was fierce and proud. Sera limped over, tossed herself over Maria’s back and wrapped stick thin arms around her neck. 

Before he knew how it happened, they were all there. Bull’s hand on Maria’s head, Thom’s on her shoulder, Cassandra joining Cole at her side, Vivienne crouching behind him and pushing her soaked hair away from her cold, slick skin. 

For once, nobody said anything. 

 

_ Like a force to be reckoned with _ __   
_ A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss _ __   
_ I will love you without any strings attached _ __   
_ What a privilege it is to love _ _   
_ __ A great honor to hold you up

 

“We’ve got you, Princess.” Varric soothed as she shuddered fitfully. “We’ve got you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Atlas Two" by Sleeping at Last


	11. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria struggles with silence, with guilt, and with loss.

_ Everything. _ __   
_ I see everything in her, _ __   
_ Because the stardust that makes her _ _   
_ __ Is the same stardust that makes me. 

_ -Nikita Gill _

 

Maria held precious few memories of her parents and she couldn’t be sure any of them were accurate. Instead, when she tried to recall them she often found herself remembering parts of the whole. She could remember a booming male laugh that echoed upstairs late at night as she drifted to sleep and large, calloused hands over hers when she threw chunks of bread to the gulls at the docks. She could conjure up a spill of dark hair over a woman’s shoulder, just like Beatrix’s, and a vague impression of a lilting melody hummed over and over again. 

Nothing that added up to a whole person, let alone two whole people. The only clear recollection she had was of ash in between her fingertips, her other hand clutched tightly by Nanna who held Bea on her hip with the other arm. She released what was left of them into the ocean on a beautiful summer day. She could picture the sun sparkling on the water like it was yesterday, feel Nanna’s hand on her own like Zarra Cadash hadn’t been ash herself for two damn years. 

She thumbed the necklace around her neck thoughtfully, the gold crest warm against her skin. Nanna gave it to her when she turned eighteen, but she didn’t start wearing it often until she was nearly twenty-one. Before that, Maria owned a worn leather cord that she never removed from around her neck. Maria strung her parents wedding rings on that cord when she’d been thirteen, maybe a little younger. They were the only thing Zarra kept when she recovered their bodies after the exhaustive search for her only child. 

Zarra’s hair was once as red as Maria’s, the same shade she shared with her father according to all she’d ever heard, but it turned white after that. That, Maria thought despairingly, was the price of love. Eventually, it turned into a scar everyone could see. 

Her father’s ring was lost with Fynn, a promise she’d given him and that neither of them could keep. Maria never knew where her mother’s ended up. Sold, probably, pawned to a slimy nosed mouth breather with no idea of its importance after it’d been wrenched from her hand by the people paid to kill her. 

Her fingers closed over the object next to the crest she wore, Varric’s signet ring back around her neck again because he thought she needed the luck. Maybe she did, her luck seemed to have taken a pretty severe turn downhill the last two years. 

Love left a scar, but Maria had plenty of scars already. What was another one, when all was said and done? 

“You are not even paying attention!” Bann Teagen seethed, pounding his fist on the table. Fereldens, she thought dispiritedly. Why were they always hitting things? 

“I am.” She answered smoothly. A lie, she really only needed to pay half-attention to Bann Teagen and Duke Cyril. She’d already heard everything they kept saying a hundred times. “Repeating yourself isn’t going to make me change my mind.” 

Teagan thought he scared her, and that was enough to make her roll her eyes. Maria’s nightmares were made of far more frightening things than Teagan and Cyril. But the furious spark in Josephine’s eye as she turned was enough to make Maria straighten in her chair, close her fingers tighter over the ring on the gold chain. “My lords, there is a threat to these talks. Disclosing the nature of the threat could  _ greatly _ interfere with our ability to neutralize it. I would be more than happy to thoroughly debrief you after it has been dealt with.”

“And we are supposed to trust you?” Teagan’s vein pulsed in his neck. Spittle flew from his lips. “This is a ploy!”

“Orlais would be more than happy to assist you in combating any threat, Inquisitor, but it is vital that the council continues, it has been two days since…” Cyril began again. Maria fought to keep her eyes from glazing over. 

Two days, and they were no closer to figuring out this dragon’s breath nonsense than they had been. Maria needed to be in the Eluvians, scouting, searching. Instead, she found herself fucking trapped in this room with two men who needed their heads bashed together. 

As if sensing the violence in her thoughts, a spark of white hot pain lanced through her arm, very nearly took her breath away. She felt her heart flutter uneasily in her chest and gritted her teeth together to keep the shocked gasp from slipping out. Not here, not in front of these fools. 

“We have no proof you have the well-being of the council, or indeed the people of Thedas, in mind!” Teagan continued. 

Yeah, this exalted council was definitely going to end with her smashing Teagan’s face into a damn table. 

“That is hardly fair, my lord.” Josephine cut in immediately. 

“Considering  _ you’re _ the one who left Redcliffe in the hands of Tevinter Magister who…” Maria snarled. 

“The same Tevinter Magister you are sheltering!” Teagan threw back. 

“Whose skills I am using to make sure what happened at Haven  _ never _ happens again!” 

“The former Magister is supervised thoroughly, I assure you.” Josephine’s eyes were crackling with warning, directing her to calm down and allow her to salvage this. 

Maria considered flipping the table over and crushing both idiots underneath it. She wasn’t Iron Bull, but she was angry enough to make it work. Another spark of pain flared into existence in her palm, and she had to pinch her mouth shut against the scream.

A scream like the ones she kept hearing, the ones that echoed in the deep roads as she murdered a hundred to save this fucking council. Murdered in cold blood.

If she started screaming, Maria didn’t know if she could ever stop. 

The door opened before anyone could say anything else, revealing Cullen. “Pardon the interruption. Inquisitor, if you have a moment…” 

Maria nearly flew out of her chair, despite the sputtered protests of Josephine and Duke Cyril. “Gentlemen, Lady Montiliyet will continue to discuss this matter with you.” She called over her shoulder as she slipped out underneath Cullen’s outstretched arm. 

“Please tell me we have something.” Maria begged as they began to walk through the opulent halls. “Anything.” 

“I’m uncertain, I have an… odd report. I thought to investigate myself first, but I… I thought you may need rescued.” Cullen grinned, boyishly pleased with himself, down at her. 

She could have kissed him. “Thank the Maker for you, Cullen.” She whispered fervently, rubbing her forehead. 

“Do not thank me yet.” Cullen chuckled. “Josephine didn’t look pleased.” 

No, she didn't. Maria wondered if Varric could find those chocolates Josie liked. Maria probably owed her that. While she pondered it, Maria took the opportunity to examine her gloved hand, stretching her fingers out, breathing through the dull waves of pain that rippled up her skin. 

"Are you well?" 

Maria looked up in time to catch Cullen gazing at her critically. She dropped her hand immediately. "Why?" She asked suspiciously. 

"Your inner circle is worried. We're worried." Cullen stated unequivocally. "The… mess in the deep roads caused you great distress. When you are upset, the anchor flares up."

Cullen's tone saved him, because at least he could be frank about it. "Varric and Dorian have asked Charter and me to funnel some things their way, to take things off your plate." He continued.

Oh, for fucks sake. The errant thought showed in her face because Cullen shook his head immediately. "We have not done so. I… I know it is easier to work than do nothing."

How many times had she stayed up with Cullen into the morning while they worked into a mania to fight lyrium withdrawal and the racking pain of too many rifts sealed? Too many nights bleeding together to pin down when she'd started to feel like she'd faced some of her hardest battles with Cullen's demons beside her own. Maker, what she wouldn't give sometimes for a straightforward fight instead of the losing battle with her own body.

"Thanks Cullen. I'll be alright. You know how they worry." She paused, bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Send them the supply manifests for our latest orders. Let them reconcile the books if they want something to do, it'll keep them busy at least."

Cullen chuckled.

 

Very quickly, neither of them were laughing, because Maria recognized the barrel on the ground between the Inquisition soldier and the servant. She’d blown enough of them sky high two days previously. 

Cullen shot her a dark look, asking her to confirm or deny his immediate suspicion. He’d raced to the same conclusion she did quickly enough, but Cullen read all her reports. In detail. She described the Gatlock barrels well enough that anyone who read it would be able to recognize it.

Inquisition soldier  _ didn’t _ have access to the Inquisitor’s reports like Cullen did. Was the elf seriously just that good at spotting suspicious behavior? Maybe, Maria had good reason to be proud of her people after all.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The guard captain of Halamshiral looked like he was going to blow a gasket. “Sorry about the incident, Messere.” Maria smiled, took a step forward and laid her hand on his arm, batted her lashes. “I’ll take them both into custody, we’ll get to the bottom of it. I apologize.” 

He tore his arm free and glared down at her before turning on his heel and storming off. Maria winced internally. She made a note to tell Varric to also buy Josie a substantial amount of wine. Sighing, she turned to the soldier. “Sorry, kid. Politics, but it looks like you did good. Once we’re out of Halamshiral, we’ll cut you lose.” 

As long as the roiling feeling in her gut didn’t prevent it. The soldier saluted sharply and the small contingent of her people tucked away both servant and soldier. “Cullen, we need to get that out of here and make sure there aren’t any other ones.” 

“I’ll have people search.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maker’s breath.” 

“Have Leliana talk to the servant and the soldier.” She continued to instruct, “Charter is good, but Leliana’s got a flair for finding out hidden things. I’ve got a feeling that everything is about to go tits up, again.” 

“Andraste preserve us.” Cullen prayed.

 

Only Dorian could look so absolutely miserable while swirling his wine in his goblet. Maria felt like basking in his dourness, it matched hers perfectly. She flopped into the chair opposite his and immediately swung her boots up onto the table. 

“Barbarian.” He groaned without any real venom. 

“Keep it up and I’ll drag you back out to the Hissing Wastes with me next time I decide to go.” She threatened cheerfully. His dark eyes snapped to hers immediately. 

“You absolutely  _ cannot _ go to the Hissing Wastes for a year, at least. So your threat rings hollow, Inquisitor. By that time…” Dorian deflated further into the cushions. “Well, I won’t be here to yell at you, will I?” 

“I thought you’d stay with me.” The words flew out before she could stop them. She saw the way they hit him straight in the gut, a guilt sucker punch. She also didn’t want him to go back to Tevinter, so maybe a little guilt trip wouldn’t hurt. “At least for the next couple months?” Maria wheedled. 

“I would, truly.” Dorian sat his glass down heavily. “Mostly to help Varric manage you. Alas, it isn’t to be.” He nudged a rolled up piece of parchment across the table. “A congratulatory notice from the Magisterium. I’ve inherited my father’s seat.” 

Suddenly, Maria understood his melancholy entirely too well. She was on her feet again in an instant, by his side as quickly as she could be, curling into him while he dipped his head down, struggling to master the roiling emotion beneath the surface. “Ah, well.” Dorian’s voice sounded too strained, too tight. “I hadn’t seen him, you know. Not since…” 

She knew. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and he chuckled weakly. “People will talk, Inquisitor.” 

“Let them. I don’t give a flying fuck.” Particularly not when she was going to give birth to a very dwarven baby in seven months. “Do you want to cry into my tits? That’d really give them something to talk about.” 

She succeeded in making him laugh, even as he wiped the tears out of his eyes. “They say he was assassinated. He arranged this post for me, I thought as a favor to buy back my affection, but… it seems he just wished me out of the way.” 

People did strange, wonderful things for their children. “He loved you, Dorian. He may have been shit at loving you, but he did.” 

Dorian shook his head and sighed wearily. “This is where I tell you, poignantly might I add, that you’ll do better at loving yours.” 

Well, with  _ that _ she would, at least. She couldn’t picture a world where her or Varric would give a shit which genitals their children wanted to smash together. Nanna hadn’t cared either, she’d joked that it meant an unexpected and complicated pregnancy was less likely with Bea. “I’m sure I’ll figure out a new and inventive way to fuck this kid up, Dorian. Just enough to make her interesting.” 

Dorian laughed again, reaching into his pocket. “I forgot, I’d even brought presents!” 

She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the yellow rock he dumped in her hand. The edges were smooth, like quartz, but beyond that she couldn’t make out a purpose. “Am I supposed to throw it at someone?” She guessed. 

“Don’t you dare. It’s horribly expensive.” Dorian huffed, opening his hand to reveal a stone that was identical in every way to the stone she held. She realized, with a shiver, that the stone had been created by man, no stone would ever form with such a perfect match. “A sending crystal. It will allow us to speak, even while I’m dodging assasination attempts in Minrathous and you’re languishing in Kirkwall or stalking around Skyhold.” 

A way that he wouldn’t leave her. Not as good as the real thing, not nearly what she wanted. But, she supposed, better than nothing. Still, she couldn’t help herself from looking up at him, the itch in the back of her throat betraying the looming tide of emotion. “Don’t go back this time. You don’t have to be a Magister, you’ve done enough.” 

“Couldn’t we say the same about you?” Dorian asked, gesturing to Halamshiral with a broad sweep of his arm. “And yet, you insist on clawing your nails in. Even when the smart thing would be to turn tail and make for the nearest port.” 

She couldn’t. He knew it and she knew it. Instead, Dorian poured another measure of wine in his goblet and raised it to her. “To impossible journeys, my friend.” 

 

Varric found her outside the cells where Leliana probed the servant. She chewed on the side of her nail as she listened to repeated protests of innocence, of ignorance. Varric’s arm across her upper back brought her crashing back to the present, fixing him with a confused glance. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” He asked gently, pressing firmly against her back to twist her towards the door. 

Maria allowed herself to be coaxed away from the cell against her better judgement. Varric’s hand felt warm on skin she hadn’t even realized was chilled. “Not sure.” She yawned in response. “What, eight?”

Varric snorted in disbelief, shaking his head in utter exasperation. “Try nearly midnight, Maria.” 

“Bullshit.” That couldn’t be right. Cole brought her soup around dinner time while she poured over reports with Cullen, and that couldn’t have been more than two hours ago. 

But the gardens were deserted except for stationary guards, standing as still as the hedges. Maria quickly recalculated, tried to ease her rising disquiet. Losing track of time wasn’t anything new, but four hours? She never got that far behind. What had she been doing? 

She remembered she threw up the soup after she ate it because the burning pain in her arm spread to her head like a pounding migraine, made her so nauseous she couldn’t stand it. A part of her wanted to blame the poor baby in her belly, but she knew better. Luckily, Cullen remained blissfully the least observant man she ever met. 

She chanced an appraising glance at Varric when they passed a lantern. Even in the shadows, there were tight lines visible around his eyes, worry and stress painted around them like scars while they slipped from shadow to shadow. 

She caused them and she knew it. Varric only ever looked that broken up when he worried himself sick. “How long were you looking for me?” 

“I’m the lucky one.” Varric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The Seeker is still looking, I bet. I sent a message to give it up once I figured out you were in the cells.” 

“I’m sure she’s enjoying the nostalgia.” She couldn’t bear the silent accusation in his face. “They found more gatlock.” 

“I’m aware. Helped the Chargers get it out.” Varric steered her down the corridor to her rooms, nodding briskly to the guards while he wrenched it open. After he bundled her inside, he pulled it shut with a firm click of finality. 

“Varric…” She didn’t want to fight. The room was illuminated with lamps burned nearly two-thirds of the way down, their flames flickered as gently as Varric’s hand moving to her waist, gently tugging her shirt from her breeches. 

“You look dead on your feet.” His fingertips brushed skin at the small of her back, a comforting heat like mulled ale on a cold mountain night. “C’mon, let’s get you in bed.” 

Before he could tug the shirt off over her head, she brought her hand to his chest, let it rest there where she could feel the beat of his heart in her fingertips, the softness of his chest hair, the quiet stillness that was as much a part of Varric as his broken nose. 

She was an ocean in the middle of a hurricane, but he was a deep, calm lake. She wanted nothing more desperately than to slip underneath his surface, let him cradle her to sleep. Drowning in him seemed an easy way to die, a peaceful way to cease to exist. 

He placed his hand over hers, held it there for a quiet moment. He exhaled and pressed his forehead flush to hers, one hand coming up to cradle her cheek. “I’m sorry.” She whispered, but she didn’t know what she was apologizing for. The screams that echoed, louder in the silence, the ones she couldn’t flee from no matter how quickly she moved. The lines she put on Varric’s face, the people in the Emprise that she couldn’t save, the magic spinning slowly out of control over her right arm, the Exalted Council threatening to dismantle her very life down to her bones, the baby growing inside her without any guarantee that she could make this world safe enough for it. “I’m sorry.” 

He stroked her hair back, making a small noise of comfort in the back of his throat while he pulled her flush to his chest. “You should be.” He whispered against her temple. “The Seeker won’t yell at you for leading her on another merry chase, it’ll be my fault. Somehow.” 

She choked on her laughter and allowed him to pull her to the bed, to strip her bare and tug her skin flush to his skin in the darkness. Before she could panic at the sudden silence, he began to talk again, voice low and soft. “Did I ever tell you about the time Daisy and Rivaini started a food fight in the Hanged Man?” 

She rested her head on his chest so she could hear the rumble of his voice through his ribs. “Tell me again.” She whispered. 

He did. Until she slipped effortlessly into the depths of the fade. 

 

_ Everything was a riot of color and sound, music bursting from every corner. Satinalia in Ostwick, the great social equalizer. Everyone poured from their houses to join the throng, to feel blissfully and simply alive.  _

_ The heat from the ale pulsed in her fingertips when she spun among the dancers, laughing breathlessly as one of the Carta boys, Nico she thought, threw stolen flowers out to the crowd. She wore one herself, a white daisy. Nico tucked it behind her ear with a flourish and a pinch to her bottom that caused her to bat his hand away with a playful scowl.  _

_ The music paused and the crowd called out for more, both demanding and plaintive. She caught sight of Bea perched on a roof with something shiny bouncing in her hands. Picked from some unsuspecting pocket, most likely. A girl leaned toward her, elven she thought if those were the tips of the girls ears poking through her hair.  _

_ She turned back to the music, satisfied that Bea hadn’t found trouble she couldn’t handle. Across the crowd, she met burning dark eyes hanging on her every movement. Fynn Dunhark, joining most of the guild in slumming it during Satinalia. _

_ Slow heat uncurled in her belly, the same way it did every time she caught Fynn looking at her like that. It’d been months, her order nearly complete. Months of fighting like cats and dogs in Fynn’s shop. Months of her storming out, months of him throwing his hammers around every time she punched a hole in his logic. _

_ Months of sneaking candy to his apprentices. Months of building card towers on his tables. Months of him teasing Bea, catching her in attempted theft three times with a kind of resigned humor.  _

_ Months of that scalding gaze lingering on her skin when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, when she found herself lost in a book or chewing on the end of her pen while she debated how to write a letter.  _

_ He hid it whenever she looked up and Maria ignored it. Danger, her mind screamed. His father was trying to match him with someone suitable (pretty, she bet, but not nearly as pretty as she was.) Underneath all the arguing, the tension built and built until sometimes it choked the air in his forge.  _

_ But it was Satinalia and the alcohol made her foolish. So she held his gaze as she backed away from the dancers, towards the narrow opening of the alley behind her. She winked before vanishing into the darkness.  _

_ For a dwarf far larger than her slender frame, he moved fast. They weren’t the only couple hiding in the alley, but it seemed like they were. She knew him in the darkness, knew the scent of iron and steel on his clothes, the feel of his beard against her cheek as he pressed her against the alley wall.  _

_ Something twisted inside her. Her mind screamed that this was wrong, so wrong. The feel of Fynn under her hands as his fingers found her waist, the smell, the beard against her cheek. Wrong, wrong.  _

_ A green light filled the alley, illuminated them both. Her hand cast their shadows larger on the walls. The music was far away and this hadn’t happened like this. She remembered that Fynn took her back to the forge, laid her on the table she usually perched on, spread her like a feast on every surface before they tumbled into the bed in the loft and… _

_ She didn’t want to go with him this time. She couldn’t go.  _

_ “I’m sorry.” She whispered. She owed Fynn that apology. “I’m sorry, I can’t go.”   _

_ Fynn’s hands loosened around her waist immediately and he pulled back, tilting his head to the side and staring at her. “You must love him.”  _

_ There wasn’t accusation in his voice, in fact there was little emotion at all. Just a statement of fact. Was this a demon? Dorian warned her about demons in the fade, said they usually targeted mages, but he couldn’t be sure if one would ever toss its cap at her.  _

_ How did you fight demons in the fade? The last time, she’d had a significant amount of help. This time, she feared she was all alone. “You’re not real.” She stated simply, as factually as he did. “You died.”  _

_ “And you’re dying.” Fynn frowned at this, reaching up to pull the daisy from her hair. “I always loved you with flowers in your hair. I bet he does too.”  _

_ “I’m not dying.” She argued. Arguing with Fynn, easy and familiar as it always was. He must have had the same thought, or the demon wearing his face did, because he smirked and shook his head in exasperation.  _

_ “I found this flower in the morning, but you were gone.” He twisted the stem between his fingers thoughtfully. “I never did get a good reason why.”  _

_ “I told you, what happens during Satinalia stays at Satinalia.” _

_ His face turned somber. “But it didn’t.”  _

_ “If it would have, you’d still be alive.” She pointed out. _

_ “I made my choice, Maria.” Fynn dropped the flower on the ground. “You always run when you’re frightened, but there’s nowhere left to run.”  _

_ Ashes fell from the sky, turning to grey smudges when Fynn brushed them from his shoulder. “Are you a demon?” She asked.  _

_ “If I bloody was, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?” Fynn asked, his eyes reflecting an inferno back at her. She could hear the flames now where there had been music. “Come home, Maria. We’re waiting for you.”  _

 

The pounding dragged her from sleep, but Maria froze instead of moving. The lanterns were extinguished, the room completely dark, the blanket heavy over her. Beside her, Varric swore eloquently, the bed shifting as he moved. 

The door shuddered in the frame and Maria pushed the blanket down, casting the room in a green glow, revealing Varric beside their bed. “Stay put. If the damn castle isn’t on the verge of blowing up, I’m sending them away.” 

Halamshiral could very well be on the verge of blowing up and she opened her mouth to tell him so, but her eyes slid past him to the windows behind him. For a brief second, she saw Fynn’s face through the glass, eyes still burning with the flames that took his life.

Her mouth went dry and she couldn’t say anything. Varric, grumbling still, made his way to the door and Maria blinked. The face in the window vanished and she placed her unmarked hand to her pounding heart. 

Just a trick of the light, of the darkness, of her mind still clouded with sleep. She took a deep, shaky breath and Varric wrenched the door open just enough to reveal Cullen looming above him. “Curly, this better be good.” 

“I apologize.” Cullen began stiffly. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but I didn’t know what else to do with her.” 

Sera finally snapped and pranked Bann Teagan, Maria thought with a surge of vindictive pleasure. Served him right. 

But Varric opened the door further and didn’t reveal a lanky elf. Instead, glowing in the light behind her, Beatrix swaggered past Varric like she owned Halamshiral. Maria almost didn’t recognize her in the darkness, but the feline sway of her hips was a dead giveaway, even more so than the glinting golden brown of her hair. Cullen followed her in with a lamp, casting a warm glow as he shut the door behind them. 

Varric grabbed another lamp, lighting it as Bea spun on her feet, taking in the elaborate room with a mocking smile. Maria, frozen in shock, couldn’t help but notice how  _ good _ Bea looked. Her sun-kissed skin glowed, honey brown hair gleamed in waves over one shoulder. Something glimmered, a little diamond stud she guessed, in her nose. Nanna would have had a fit if she saw it, a match for the one in her exposed navel. The shirt she wore cut off at the bottom of her ribs, showcasing her flat stomach and a swirling vine of ink peeking from beneath snug breeches. 

A dagger hung low over her left hip, the ivory handle shimmering. Maria knew it had her initials on it, the way the one hidden in her drawer at Skyhold did before it’d been destroyed. Then Bea’s gray eyes found the bed in the darkness, locked onto her dark silhouette. 

Maria was glad the lamp light didn’t quite reach her and pressed her marked hand down on the blankets to extinguish that glow. She couldn’t hope to control the emotions surging in her face. Hiding them from Bea would be impossible because Bea knew her better than anyone, even after all this time.  

“Maria.” Bea greeted cheerfully enough. “I should have known they’d give you the best rooms in the damn place.” 

Words bubbled in her mind. Accusations, apologies, confessions, words to wound, words to heal. Maker, she thought she’d never hear Bea’s voice again. The sound of it was like opening a window, feeling a bitter wind blow in that somehow still managed to clear away all the cobwebs in her head. 

She hadn’t heard from her sister in nearly two and a half years. She had one letter, the one that told her Zarra Cadash died. The one that told her…

_ You dragged us into this mess, just like you always do. _

The truth in the statement cut her open then as surely as if Bea took one of the blades from her back and shoved it between her ribs. Maria thought the wound healed, but she realized she’d been wrong. It hadn’t healed, and Bea’s reappearance reopened it instantly. 

“What are you doing here?” A safe question, one she very nearly managed to ask without a tremor in her voice. 

She’d sent letters back after that one. At least a dozen. Pieces of them floated through her mind. 

_ I’m sorry.  _

_ I love you.  _

_ You’re the only family I have left worth a damn.  _

_ Please answer me.  _

“I thought the easiest way to find your room was to let Cullen catch me.” Bea answered the question and didn’t at the same time, voice full of childish false bravado. 

“Let me catch you?” Cullen repeated, aghast. 

“Mittens, your timing couldn’t be shittier.” Varric stated evenly. “C’mon, we’ll get you a room and you can talk in the morning.” 

Of course Bea let Cullen catch her. Bea, the best smuggler and thief she knew, wouldn’t have gotten caught unless she wanted to. “Answer the question, Bea.” She demanded. “Why are you here?”

Why now? She wanted to scream the question.  

I’m having a baby, she wanted to whisper. 

Bea plucked the lamp from Cullen’s hand effortlessly, so quickly he barely had time to register its absence as Bea advanced across the room towards the bed. The glow of the light on her face caught in her grey eyes, uncharacteristically serious. Maria hadn’t noticed the dark circles underneath them. 

“You look like shit.” Bea observed calmly. 

The tenuous grasp Maria kept on her anger snapped like a thin cord. She rose off the bed like a dragon launching itself into the air, holding the sheet to her chest as an afterthought to avoid flashing Cullen. Her other hand reached for the night stand, for the book she knew she’d find. That was the benefit of loving a writer, there were always books at hand for reading. Or throwing at your little sister when she showed up at the worst possible time, in the middle of the night, acting like  _ nothing _ had happened. 

She launched the book with deadly accuracy. Bea, quick as a snake, barely dodged it. She wasn’t quick enough to dodge the second one, which landed against her shoulder with a loud thump. She nearly dropped the lantern she still held. 

Varric winced as both books hit the ground. 

“I probably deserved that.” Bea admitted breathlessly, rubbing her shoulder.

“Get out.” Maria seethed, pulling the sheet tighter to her body. “Cullen, put her back where you found her. She’ll find her own damned way out.” 

“Maria…” Bea began, taking a brave step forward. Maria was out of projectiles on her side of the bed, but her bow was near the armoire, and she was more than capable of just slightly wounding her sister. To make a point.

“Get out, or I’ll shoot you.” She threatened. 

Bea shot Varric a helpless, pleading look. Varric lifted his hands in the air to deflect it. 

“You made your bed.” He stated reasonably. “I’m not helping you.” 

Bea looked for a moment like she might argue with him, but she swallowed whatever she was about to stay and fixed her eyes on Maria instead. “I was worried about you. I wanted to see you.” 

In the middle of the night, during what could be the biggest crisis she’d faced since Corypheus reopened the breach. If she didn’t feel like ripping out her hair, she could almost laugh. “I don’t… just go Bea. I don’t have time for this right now, I’ve got bigger problems. I don’t need you.” 

The dart hit home just like she knew it would and she took selfish pleasure in returning the blow, the way Bea’s lips curved downward, the wrinkle at the top of her nose that gave away her distress. Silence fell over the scene until Cullen broke the tension, reaching out to gently place his hand over Bea’s slight shoulder. 

“Come along.” He began gruffly, but not unkindly. “I’ll walk you out.” 

For a second, Maria thought she’d go. Bea angled her body towards Cullen like she was giving up the fight. Maria should have known better. Bea barely turned before she looked over her shoulder. 

“Those problems you mentioned…” She began thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t happen to involve Qunari by any chance?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is super long! 
> 
> I've never been quite clear how *long* the exalted council actually lasted. Like, did it all happen in a day? That is a lot of fighting and exploring to occur in one day. 
> 
> I'm stretching it out over about a week - which I think will give a more realistic picture of the anchor degrading and the gang's reaction to the ordeal.


	12. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria and her sister argue. Varric makes a critical mistake.

Maria possessed an indefinable something that screamed danger, something that made rooms quiet when she entered, that made people turn and pay attention. Beatrix Cadash, in contrast, looked like she couldn’t skin you with her blade and that was what made her dangerous.  Bea was much easier to miss when she reclined in the shadows, letting the lantern light barely illuminate her. 

Maria was the blow you couldn’t avoid. Bea was the one you never saw coming. 

She hummed a little as she fixed her hair vainly in the shine of her long wicked dagger. The rest of the room sat quietly, waiting. Most of them showed signs of recently being roused from their beds. Dorian’s hair stuck up in all sorts of interesting directions, Bull yawned and scratched at stubble on his chin. The Seeker lacked her usual eyeliner, Thom and Sera both smelled like they’d been dragged right from the tavern. Josephine struggled to look alert even as she rested her head on her palm. 

Varric hoped he looked as awake as Cullen did, but he doubted it. He played with the idea of slipping a sleeping drought into the untouched glass of wine next to Beatrix, then sending everyone back to their beds. Especially Maria. 

She stood as far away from her sister as she could, the door behind her back while she glared at the table in front of her. Beatrix’s assessment, as ill-timed as it was, hadn’t missed the mark. There were similar dark circles beneath each woman’s eyes, but otherwise Bea was the picture of health. 

Maria looked like she could drop from exhaustion at any moment, skin so pale it was nearly translucent except for two worrying pink spots high on her cheeks. When she’d fallen asleep, she’d been clammy and feverish. He didn’t see any sign of that abating any time soon. 

Varric studiously ignored every accusatory glare the younger Cadash sent his way. If she thought she’d have done better making sure Maria didn’t work herself into an early grave, she could shove it up her ass. 

The door opened behind Maria and the two figures swept in silently, flanking her. Leliana’s robes glowed white in the candlelight and Charter frowned immediately in Bea’s general direction. “You shouldn’t be here.” Charter crossed her  thin arms over her chest. “You’re on a ship in the Antivan sea.” 

Bea shrugged effortlessly. “You’re not nearly as good at your job as top hat here was.” She jerked her thumb at Leliana. 

“Beatrix.” Maria snapped. Bull’s eyebrow raised at the tone and Cassandra sighed. Varric nearly heard Bea’s jaw click shut, but the effort not to argue was obvious in every tense line of her body. 

The anchor sputtered in Maria’s palm and each set of eyes in the room slid to it as surreptitiously as possible. Everyone except Beatrix, whose jaw had popped back open immediately. Varric wanted to stop her, but beyond actually hitting her, he didn’t know how. Maria unclenched her tightened fist and took a deep breath. “Right, everyone’s here.” Maria began.

“Wait, are we seriously not going to talk about that?” Bea asked, jerking her chin towards Maria’s hand. 

“No.” Maria stated simply. “It’s time for you to spill what you know.” 

Calling Bea’s expression mutinous would have been charitable, but Maria stared her down unflinchingly until the younger woman capitulated. “Fine.” Bea snapped, sheathing her blade. “I was in Markham.” 

“Doing?” Leliana asked silkily. 

“Whatever I liked.” Bea leaned back further into the shadows. “It doesn’t matter. I overheard a smuggler talking about a job he was doing for the Inquisition while I was playing cards. It felt… off.” 

“What made it seem off?” Bull leaned forward on his elbows. “Must’ve been a tell.” 

“Look, I don’t know.” Bea shrugged her shoulders even more defensively. “I didn’t like it, that’s all. So… I looked into it.” 

“Did we hire a smuggler near Markham?” Maria asked Charter. Charter shook her head slightly. 

“Well, the papers he had definitely had your signature forged. So… I took a look at what he had and…” Bea sighed, fiddled with the dagger at her waist. “Have you ever heard of saar-qamek?” 

Fuck. Varric rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. This was going downhill, and quickly. 

“Poison. Usually a gas, drives people out of their heads before their brains explode.” Iron Bull broke in. “Nasty shit. The Qun uses it for crowd control in Seheron.”  

“Yeah. Bela recognized it. Barrels and barrels of the stuff, enough to drive a whole city mad. It was headed for Orlais.” Of course Isabela was involved, Varric couldn’t even summon an ounce of surprise. He shared a pained look with Maria. 

“Was, Mittens?” He asked softly. 

“I didn’t think it belonged to you, it’s not exactly… it’s not something you’d use. So, we stole them. Popped them on Isabela’s ship and sunk them in the middle of the ocean. We didn’t think the Qun was actually shipping poison gas across Thedas. I thought they’d been stolen, or bought, or…” 

Varric’s heart sank in his chest as Bea stopped, collected her breath. He couldn’t bear the suspense. “I’m assuming the Qunari were spectacularly unhappy when they found out.” Particularly when they found out Isabela was involved. Fenris would tear Isabela’s heart out if Hawke needed to fight another duel for the pirate queen’s life. 

“Bela lost two ships, but it could have been so much worse.” Beatrix admitted, eyes flashing dangerously. 

“So you’re here because you pissed off the qunari.” Maria guessed, her knuckles white where she gripped onto the table. 

“We took care of the Qunari that came after us.” Bea leaned forward against the other edge of the table. “Damnit, Maria, I’m here because I thought you might have been the intended target. The shipment was in your Inquisition’s name, it was being sent to Orlais, and I…” 

“Whether or not the saar qamek was meant for the council is irrelevant now, but confirms my suspicions.” Leliana broke in. “The qunari meant to assassinate you and every dignitary here, to turn Orlais and Ferelden into chaos. The servant has yet to give away anything clearly, but I think there may be more gatlock at other key points in Thedas.” 

“We’ve sent word to all our agents from Denerim to Kirkwall, Antiva to Nevarra.” Charter stated. “If there are others, we will find them. I swear to you, Inquisitor.” 

Maria sighed, dropped her head until it nearly touched the gleaming wooden surface. “Right. Everyone stay alert. As soon as we know anything… I’ll send word.” 

Chairs pushed away from the table and slowly people began to amble past Maria. Dorian paused, lingering in the threshold. “Stay put, for Andraste’s sake. I’m going to retrieve that salve for your arm before we do anything else.” 

“Yes mother.” Maria’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. Dorian huffed before disappearing. 

Leaving Varric stuck between two pissed off women. Bea stared daggers across the table, Maria pushed herself away from it wordlessly, returning the glare with an icy one of her own. She almost succeeded in hiding the pain surging beneath it. Almost. 

“Maria.” Bea sighed her sister’s name, looked down and rubbed the back of her neck. “Maria, I’m sorry.” 

“If you were sorry, you’d have come back ages ago.” Maria narrowed her eyes, sweeping them appraisingly across Bea.

“I couldn’t.” Bea didn’t raise her eyes from the ground. “I wanted to, but I…” 

“Why not?” Maria demanded, her voice rising like a tide. 

Bea pursed her lips together and stayed quiet. Varric counted his heartbeats, waiting. 

“Fuck you.” Maria’s spat, venomous as a rattlesnake. 

“Like you wanted me anyway!” Bea raged, breaking from the shadows and stalking around the table with feline grace. “I’m an embarrassment, isn’t that right? Nobody wants to think of the mighty Inquisitor slumming with the Carta.” 

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.” Maria jabbed her finger towards Bea’s chest. “You fucking know I would never…” 

“But you’re not wearing your knife anymore, are you?” Bea challenged righteously, pulling herself up to her full height. “Too ashamed to be Maria Cadash? Is it collecting dust in a drawer somewhere?” 

“Beatrix…” Varric warned. 

“You’re just as bad!” Bea pointed an accusing finger in Varric’s direction. “You act like you’re not like every other deshyr I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, but the second you had a chance to flaunt a mistress, you took it.” 

“Shut up!” Maria roared, slamming the sputtering anchor on the table in a fit of rage. “You have no right to talk to him like that and you know it!”

“It looks to me like he’s using you!” Beatrix yelled back, slamming her hand just as hard on the table. “They’re all  _ using _ you and it looks like it’s killing you!” 

Beatrix hit closer to the uncomfortable truth than he’d like to admit, a worm of guilt eating away inside him. How many times had he heard the Seeker say they’d be lost without Maria? How many times had Sera smirked cheekily and said it was fine, Quizzie would handle it? 

How many times did he let her answer his letters from the Guild because she was just  _ better _ at handling these things? They basked in her shining light, they thrived. 

Cole’s words came back to haunt him, the letter he sent right before they threw the Viscount’s crown at his head.  _ She is brightest before she burns out.  _

“I nearly died!” Tears gathered like pearls in Maria’s lashes. “I got a shard of that poisoned lyrium in my skin, I nearly died, and Varric was there.” 

Bea flinched, but Maria continued on like a waterfall. “That  _ monster _ attacked Skyhold and I went out to face him without an army, without a plan, and Varric came with me, not you! I nearly got assassinated in my own damn keep, which is how I lost my knife even though it’s none of your fucking business, got stuck in the blasted fade  _ again _ and  _ Varric _ rescued me, you were nowhere to be found!”

He tried to rescue her, anyway. If it hadn’t been for Fenris and Varania… Bea’s face lost color rapidly, tears springing to her own eyes. 

“Where were you?” Maria cried, red splotches coloring her cheeks. “You didn’t even write to make sure I was still alive!”  

“I was angry. I was so angry.” Bea reached out, fingers pressing firmly on the hand with the thrumming anchor. Maria drew in a sharp, pained breath and Bea retreated quickly, frowning. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m sorry.” 

Maria raised her pulsing hand to her heart, shaking her head. “It’s too late. Just… just go. I don’t want to see you again. I  _ never _ want to see you again.” 

The silence swelled until finally Beatrix took a step away from the table. Her grey eyes fixed on Varric intently, before she twisted, slinking out the door and vanishing. 

“Damnit.” Maria’s voice cracked and she hid her face behind both of her hands. “Damn her.” 

 

When they walked back through the Eluvian, Varric knew they were walking into a trap as soon as he set sight on the new path leading to a different mirror in the distance. From the shared uneasy glances, he guessed everyone else had the same idea. 

“Thoughtful of them, boss.” Bull began nonchalantly. Cassandra snorted. 

“The main question is who’s laying the trap?” Maria tapped her lip irritably while glaring at the rocks. “This agent of Fen’Harel? The Qunari?” 

“Or somebody else entirely, my dear. You are nearly as good at making enemies as you are allies, Inquisitor.” Vivienne sniffed, casting her dark eyes around warily. 

“Well, that’s hardly fair.” Maria countered. 

“Ferelden. Half of Orlais.” Cole began. “Some of the clerics, most of Tevinter.” 

“But not you.” Maria cajoled, leaning against Cole lightly. Cole smiled, sweet and shy. 

“Not me.” He repeated. 

Maria’s brave face mostly appeared intact, but Maria’s fingers kept tangling at the chain around her neck and she held her bow protectively in front of her abdomen instead of to her side. Varric nearly succeeded in convincing her to stay behind completely, a telling testament to how shaken she’d been by the deep roads, by the revelation that the Qunari were shipping poison in her name, and by the argument with Beatrix. 

Instead, duty called and the Inquisitor answered the challenge. Varric suspected she couldn’t bear the thought of them venturing into the unknown Eluvians without her, as if her presence alone could keep them safe. Superstitious, maybe, but Maria usually took the brunt of whatever happened. Which really made Bea more right than wrong, regardless of how much it stung. “How do you want to play this, Princess?” He asked, hefting Bianca up and peering into the sky around them.

“I guess we’re going to walk into the trap.” She sighed. 

Varric shot her a withering look. “Of course we are. Let Hero go first then, his armor looks heaviest.” 

“And he wouldn’t mind if I bled out.” Thom grumbled. 

“And risk having to explain to Spitfire and Bean what happened? Don’t worry, I won’t take my chances with Varania. I’d rather die saving you.” Varric generously gestured ahead of them. Thom let out a long suffering sigh before taking point and Varric winked at Maria. 

“Alright?” He asked quietly. 

“I will be.” Her eyes flashed determinedly and she strode ahead in Thom’s wake. 

They found two mirrors glowing on the other side of the bridge, one a level higher than the other. Maria examined the one on the right closely with Cole beside her while the rest prodded the other mirror. 

“I think these footprints are fresher.” Dorian squinted down at the rocks. “Although who knows, really?” 

“I have a feeling about this one, though.” Maria traced her finger down the edge of the gilt frame. 

“A good feeling or a bad one?” Varric called up. Maria tipped her head to the side thoughtfully, shrugging after a few seconds. 

“I’m not sure.” She tore herself away from the shimmering surface, leaping lightly down the ledge and striding to their side. “Let’s try this one first then, and if we hit a dead end we’ll go down the other one.” 

Thom went first, peering into the darkened tower room they found themselves in. Vivienne meandered to one of the windows, looking out over the vista displayed around them. “I cannot say for sure I know where this tower is, but it does remind me of Ghislain.” 

“Reminds me of every other suck ass ruin we stumble into, right?” Sera asked mockingly. Maria and Varric ignored them, both of their eyes lighting on the locked chest beside the wall at the same time. 

Maria’s eyes glowed with a small burst of pleasure and Varric felt warm and tingly all over. He never could resist a locked chest. Dorian made his way past them to a desk against another wall, stopping only to shoot them both a disparaging look. 

“Is this magpie behavior a dwarven trait?” He asked disapprovingly. “You do realize it is most likely full of moldy plaidweave breeches?” 

“Maker, I hope so.” Maria grinned over her shoulder. “Sera needs a new pair.”

Varric hummed under his breath as he knelt down with his lockpicks, eyeing the elaborate and ancient lock with no small amount of excitement. Maria bent over him, her breath warm on his ear, sending even more pleasant tremors straight to his stomach. 

“If you can’t do it in ten seconds, I get to try.” She purred in challenge. 

“If I do it in five, I want you to sit for a nude portrait.” He teased warmly back. 

“Only if I draw it, yeah!” Sera squawked, nearly dropping her bow in sheer joy. Varric chuckled and Maria raised her right palm over his shoulder, illuminating the lock. Varric carefully slid one of the picks into the lock. 

He knew they’d catastrophically miscalculated immediately. The click the thin metal made wasn’t right, wasn’t even close to right. He felt all the hair on his arm stand up, like lightning was about to strike. The light of the anchor above him flickered, as if something had taken a great deep breath and tried to breathe in all the power held in Maria’s elegant hand. 

The lid of the chest flew open without either of them touching it and the crackling energy that poured out ignored him, lancing straight through the palm above his ear before she could pull it back. 

Maria’s agonized wail echoed off the walls and she fell to her knees just as Varric pushed himself up, Bianca back in his arms, staring up at the terror demon emerging from the chest. 

Dorian shouted to get down and lightning raced across the room. Enough of a distraction for Varric to kneel, pull Maria away from the shrieking creature by her waist, her body limp against his. 

The Seeker rushed past, Varric smelled fresh blood, sulphur. Maria’s hand pushed against his chest, not nearly strong enough. “I’ve got you, I…” Varric began.

“Help them.” She ordered through her labored breaths and clenched teeth, grey eyes flashing with fury. “Damnit Varric, go!” 

Fury was good, he tried to remind himself. If she was furious, she couldn’t be that hurt. Her bow was still clutched in her left hand and she shoved him a little harder. “Varric!” 

He turned his back to her, but didn’t stray from his spot in front of her, launching a bolt at a smaller shade. The bolt was joined by a green fletched arrow nearly immediately, one that flew from his left and went just slightly wide of a perfect wound on the creatures head. 

Maria swore at her miss and Varric fought the urge to roll his eyes at her impossibly high standards. Only she’d be worried about a less than perfect shot now of all times. 

When the demons began to dissolve into the ether, Varric turned and took a look at Maria on the ground behind him, her skin pale, arm shaking with the effort of holding an arrow notched and ready. While he watched, the green lines snaking over her elbow climbed higher and Maria struggled to catch her breath, choking on sounds of pain so obvious she couldn’t hope to hide them. 

“I’m sorry.” He discarded Bianca on the floor immediately, gently prying her own bow from her fingers. “Damnit.  _ Damnit. _ ”

“You didn’t know.” Maria closed her eyes, ground her teeth together as the light in her palm sparked, the flickering green lines racing back and forth. “Not your fault. Maria’s eyes opened, but they only fixed on his for a moment before focusing somewhere past him, dazed and confused. “It isn’t his fault. It’s not.” 

Varric didn’t agree and she wasn’t quite sure who she was talking to over his head. Dorian’s tan hand pressed gently against Maria’s pulse, hovering for a moment or two before he shook his head in disgust. 

“Fasta vass, we need to get her back to Halamshiral. Your pulse is more erratic than your behavior, and that is saying something.” Dorian’s brow drew tight. “Bull, can you…” 

“Kid, take this.” Varric pushed Bianca into Cole’s skinny arms, wrapping the unmarked arm around his neck and tugging Maria flush against him before standing gingerly. Still, her breath hitched as he stood and his heart bled into his stomach. 

“Wait…” Maria protested weakly. “I have to…” 

“Survive!” Dorian exploded angrily. “That is simply all you  _ must  _ do!” 

Varric wished Maria’s laughter wasn’t tinged with a hint of hysterical madness as she peered over his shoulder. “Can you see him?” She asked, words slurring softly. “Varric, can you?”

Varric looked over his shoulder at the brick wall behind him as her head lolled softly against his shoulder. “What…” 

“His eyes burn like Hercinia.” Cole whispered loudly. “Hammer on his back, ash on his face. Mama’s gold ring in between his fingers. He says you were dead, you were dead. You were dead and now you’re dying and…” 

Varric’s first thought was a demon, a leftover figment, but Dorian and Vivienne said nothing, both looking at Maria as if she’d gone mad as her eyes shut again. “Yes. That’s him.” 

“Maria. Hey, Maria!” Varric fought the rising panic, the urge to shake her as she slipped into unconciousness in his arms. He didn’t know if her not talking at all was better or worse than the nonsense slipping from her lips. “C’mon baby, don’t do this to me.” 

He remembered Bartrand asking if he heard the music and Varric’s blood went cold. 

“We’re going.” Cassandra declared, pointing to Bull. “You first, we will follow.” 

Bull didn’t need to be told twice, readying his gigantic blade before storming through the mirror. Cassandra looked down at the two of them, panic swirling in her dark eyes before she nodded sternly and turned to go as well. Varric allowed Dorian and Sera to pass before he followed, Maria’s breath uneven and harsh against his neck. 

His fault. Utterly and completely his. 

_ It’s not his fault _ . 

Gooseflesh prickled over Varric’s skin, and he wished he could blame it on stepping through the Eluvian, but he knew he couldn’t. Damnit, who had she been talking to? He needed to get Cole alone and…

He stopped cold at the macabre scene on the other side of the Eluvian. A half dozen qunari corpses were scattered at their feet, blood leaking from their eyes and noses, staring sightlessly at the sky in the Crossroads. Several of them had clean, professional slashes across their throats. One had a bleeding wound in her abdomen. 

Beatrix Cadash stood serenely in the middle of the carnage, wiping one of her blades clean on her trousers. She didn’t have a damn hair out of place. 

“Thought you tossed the saar-qamek in the ocean?” Bull asked pointedly.

“Maybe not all of it.” Beatrix tossed a sunny smile up towards him. “Never met a poison I couldn’t resist playing with, y’know.” 

“What is this?” Cassandra demanded, fingers clutching the pommel of her sword. 

“A failed ambush, you’re welcome.” Beatrix scowled, letting her eyes wander from Cassandra, right to Varric, to the spill of red hair over his arm, the anchor continuing to crawl up Maria’s pale skin like a fucking parasite. The light reflected in Bea’s gray eyes. 

“Maker’s balls.” Beatrix breathed in shock, her dagger clattering to the rocks. Varric had just enough presence of mind to realize it was the elegant one that hung at her left hip usually, the one with Maria’s initials swirling on the handle. 

Then Bea’s eyes met his and he saw, finally, a match to the swirling panic and dread he felt. As if they all stood, poised recklessly, on the edge of the abyss while Maria leaned precariously closer to falling. Both of them, he corrected. If Maria went over the edge, she’d take their child with her, Beatrix’s unborn niece.

They should be planning a nursery, he shouldn’t be carrying her through this weird shit. Again. 

“Bea…” He wasn’t sure what he wanted as he gently shifted Maria’s weight, but the sound of her name snapped the woman from her shock and she bent quickly to pick up the blade she’d dropped. 

“I’m here.” Bea’s eyes flashed furiously. “I’m here this time, it’ll be alright.” 


	13. A Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wanted to give him everything. 
> 
> Even if she wouldn't be there to enjoy it.

_ Bea’s arm curled through hers lazily. The wind off the harbor blew cold and Maria spared a thought for some of the sailors still in thin cotton and linen. She’d have frozen right through if not for the warm leather coat lined with heavy cotton. Still, the gentle warmth of Bea beside her was welcome.  _

_ “Are you girls ready?” Zarra asked, tugging on her gloves as she approached, appraising them with flinty grey eyes. “Where is your hat, Maria?”  _

_ “Do you honestly think she’s going to risk messing her hair up?” Beatrix asked before Maria could respond. In retaliation, Maria jabbed her elbow into Bea’s ribs. Bea winced and glared, but didn’t slip her arm from hers.  _

_ Zarra smiled indulgently, her leather covered fingertips gracefully brushing a strand of red hair away from Maria’s face. “Won’t due to be pretty if you catch your death.” Zarra warned gently.  _

_ “At least I’ll have a perfectly coifed corpse.” Maria quipped with her own grin. Zarra let out a long suffering sigh and Bea giggled. But Zarra’s lips curled up in amusement even as she shook her head in mock exasperation.  _

_ They trailed in Zarra’s wake while she strode purposefully through the harbor, pausing here and there to talk to some sailor or merchant. Maria should have been paying attention, but the chill in the air, the somber clouds hanging low in the sky served to set her teeth on edge. _

_ “Did you get into another fight with Dunhark?”  _

_ The question startled her, made her shoot a sly look at Beatrix from the corner of her eye. Bea munched happily on an apple she certainly hadn’t had when they started walking. She wondered idly which unsuspecting merchant found himself sans part of his lunch as Bea chewed thoughtfully. “Why?” Maria asked suspiciously.  _

_ “He gets under your skin.” Bea shrugged simply. “You’re always moody after he tells you off. I don’t know why you just don’t tell him where to shove his hammer at. Although it probably wouldn’t fit because he’s such a tight…”  _

_ Maria snorted before Bea could finish, shaking her head in amusement. Bea grinned wickedly. “Am I right?” She asked. _

_ “About where his hammer would fit? I certainly have no way of knowing that information.”  _

_ “Bet he’d let you find out. He’s always staring when you’re not looking.” Bea teased, taking another bite of her apple and letting her eyes flick covetously to the gold jewelry circling a Rivaini raider’s neck. Maria was lucky Bea looked away when she did, because she wasn’t sure she could hide the flash of irritation.  _

_ Sweet baby Andraste, what a mess. She hadn’t been able to set foot near the shop in two weeks and spent a considerable amount of time finding ways to alter frequent routes that may have her running into Fynn. Satinalia, she grumbled inwardly, hadn’t been a good enough excuse to throw herself at a deshyr. A deshyr who, rumor had it, would be engaged within six months to someone suitably boring.  _

_ Nanna would disapprove of getting involved in any sort of mess like that and Maria didn’t think she was built to be a second woman anyway.  _

_ “What are we doing anyway?” Bea asked, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.  _

 

_ In a second, in that mad, senseless way dreams had of shifting, changing, they were descending into a cellar. Gooseflesh rippled down her arms as she hit hard dirt floor. The group with them, four muscle, two other rogues shared the same uneasy posture.  _

_ They did shit like this all the time. Nanna always met new contacts in person before agreeing to any sort of business relationship. Why did this time feel so wrong? Even beside her, Bea shrunk back, stuck to her like glue. Nervous, on edge, uncharacteristicly silent. Maria swore she could smell sulphur.  _

_ Her bow, slung on her back, wouldn’t be good in tight quarters like this, but she had a dagger on her hip and it’d do in a pinch. Nanna looked over her shoulder, met her eyes and Maria nodded. She knew that look, understood what it meant. Nanna had the same eerie, unsettled feeling Maria did.  _

_ The man who turned the corner smiled broadly, holding his hands out in an expansive welcome. “Mistress Cadash!” He exclaimed. “A pleasure, a pleasure. My contacts have been so effusive with their praises.”  _

_ “We always love a good recommendation.” Zarra stated evenly, inclining her head back towards them. “The best of my crew.”   _

_ Oh, really bad then. It wasn’t often that Nanna didn’t introduce her at least, if not Bea, as the Cadash heir. Which meant that Nanna didn’t want this man to know how many of the core family he had stuck in this tunnel. Maria fisted her hand on the back of Bea’s jacket and leaned down, plucking a vial from inside one of the inner pockets while Bea stared blankly ahead.  _

_ Bea loved her poisons, mixed so many of them up herself that Nanna worried pretty consistently that she’d accidentally poison herself. Bea joked she most likely developed a pretty healthy immunity to most of them. But the ones she whipped up herself were lethal, and Maria wanted the edge if it came to it.  _

_ “Don’t worry, I got you.” Maria whispered quietly as she pulled away from Bea’s pale face. Bea flicked gray eyes up, nodded once in acknowledgement.   _

_ The man continued to chat pleasantly as they walked and Maria couldn’t place his accent. North, she thought, but not Antivan. Maker, the sulphur smell was getting stronger, and… _

_ Maria emerged into a large central chamber filled with cages and came face to face with men, women, children, staring hopelessly through the bars. Malnourished, pale, dirty, faces streaked with tears followed them with dread as they emerged into the weak lantern light. _

_ Bea took a sharp intake of breath beside her and Maria finally placed the accent. Tevinter. Slaves.  _

_ Zarra Cadash immediately went to work talking themselves out of this situation, but Maria couldn’t avoid all the eyes on her, the shaking shoulders of Bea next to her, the putrid smell of the worst atrocities people were capable of committing. Even if she closed her eyes, she swore it would follow her forever.  _

_ Bea squeezed her eyes shut, stared down at the ground, shifted so she was half behind Maria. Bea was still a child, she could afford to close her eyes and wish the world was a better place.  _

_ Maria Cadash knew better. She didn’t close her eyes, even as Zarra informed the man, regretfully, they lacked the capacity to fulfill his needs. Then Zarra pushed them back through the tunnels, one hand on her own blade, the other steering Maria forward with a single minded determination.  _

_ Bea threw up the apple she’d eaten into the sea while Maria held back her hair and turned her impotent rage onto her grandmother, demanding answers for what they should do.  _

_ Maria still remembered the bitter twist of Zarra’s lips. “Nothing. Thank the Maker, the ancestors, or whoever you wish for not getting murdered down there and leave those poor souls to their fates.”  _

_ “We can’t!” Maria protested shrilly, the wind whipping her hair away from her face, sending icy fingers down her neck. “The city guard, somebody…”  _

_ “And who will they think turned them in?” Zarra asked, reaching out and tightening her grip painfully on Maria’s arm. “For the sake of your family, we’ll do nothing. It is the smart thing, Maria. It’s what I’m ordering.”  _

_ Maria blinked back tears from her eyes, wrenched her arm free, and stormed away from her grandmother. It wasn’t the first time she’d ever done so, but it was the first time she did so knowing she would disobey, knowing she couldn’t do the smart thing, she just had to figure how…  _

_ When she turned the corner, a shadow darkened the alley. She looked up into the gaping maw of a wolf, teeth dripping with saliva, breath hot on her face. The red eyes bore into her soul and eerie green light crawled up the brick walls.  _

 

She woke up frozen, breath caught in  her chest, eyes squeezed shut tightly. 

“Why didn’t you put this in your letter?” 

“Well, Mittens, it’s not the kind of thing you put at the end of a letter. Oh by the way, your sister’s magic hand may or may not be spreading, the consequences of which are wildly unknown so whenever you feel like pulling your head out of your ass…” 

Something thunked on a table, but Maria didn’t move. Everything felt so heavy, from the tips of her fingers to her eyelids. “Maker’s hairy balls, if she even knew I wrote at all… and it isn’t like I had any guarantee Rivaini would get the letter to you in the first place.” 

Varric sounded as exhausted as she felt. Her mind clutched at the words, turning them over, trying to make sense of them in her head. Everything felt… foggy. Far away. Like she’d been drinking with Bull, but without the taste of fire on her tongue. Her breath felt like lead in her ribcage.  

“If you hadn’t tried to open that chest, she would have. You can’t allow yourself to wallow in guilt.” Cassandra’s blunt voice cut across the room. “It was the Maker’s will.” 

“The Maker can shove it then.” Varric growled. “Why? What’s the damn point of making her suffer? Why  _ now _ ? Why when…” 

Varric trailed off. Maria opened her eyes blearily. She laid on her side, sparking hand stretched out over the blanket, light falling onto her from the windows she faced. On the other side of the bed, behind her, she heard movement. A wine bottle, she thought, clinking against a glass. Beside her, on the pillow, were those little blue flowers she loved. Orlesian marguerites, little blue daisies that climbed all over the fields of Orlais. They were near her fingertips, illuminated in the green light spilling from her palm, the light that shimmered like veins over her reddened skin, moving up over her elbow, up and up… 

“What are all of you hiding?” Beatrix asked and Maria could just picture the way she crossed her arms over her chest in determination, eyes flashing passionately. Bea hated not knowing things, hated…

Maria didn’t want to draw attention to herself, not yet. She’d been hurt, obviously, although the details were a bit fuzzy. Something to do with a chest, and yes, that sounded familiar. A flash of a memory, bending over Varric’s shoulder as his silver lock picks flashed in the light from her palm. 

So, how badly had she been hurt? Her clouded mind grasped at the feeling in her body. She ached, ached from her head to her toes like she’d been struck by lightning. She wiggled the fingers on her right hand and regretted it instantly. White hot pinpricks of pain shot up her skin and she grit her teeth together tightly to avoid making a sound. 

No wonder Varric sounded so damn broken. If she hurt herself this badly, she could only imagine the damage she’d done. Hot tears burned the back of her throat. 

Marguerite would have been a lovely name for a little girl. Marguerite like the little flowers Varric sent with his first poems, like the ones he left scattered for her everywhere. The ones just within reach of her traitorous hand. 

“Seriously, nobody is going to answer me?” Bea continued into the heavy silence. Don’t any of you dare, she thought waspishly. If Bea wanted to know, then she should have… 

“The hallucination bothers me more than anything else.” Dorian’s elegant voice was heavy. “I have seen her face injury far more times than I wish to count, but never like that. Her eyes… she spoke to someone behind you Varric. Or at least she thought she was.” 

“Maria  _ isn’t _ losing her mind.” Bea declared passionately. “She isn’t the type.” 

“Nobody said she is losing her mind.” Cassandra’s steady voice broke in. “Her decisions are still sound.” 

Cassandra watched Cullen, once, to make sure he didn’t lose his damn mind. Maria never thought she’d have to do the same thing for her. At least she knew Cass wouldn’t falter in her duty. 

“She saw Fynn Dunhark.” Varric whispered. She heard the thunking sound again, recognized it as the sound of a whiskey glass slamming on wood. “And in case you’re wondering, he didn’t seem particularly impressed with me.” 

The bitter edge of pain and guilt in Varric’s voice was enough to make her want to move. She’d face the rolling agony for Varric. She started to give herself a little pep talk, taking a small breath in preparation… 

“Well, I wouldn’t feel too bad about that.” Bea’s voice, warm and alive, tinged with a wicked laughter. “He didn’t like Maria much either at first. Still ended up sneaking her into his bed the first chance he got.”  

“To be fair, she is much prettier.” Dorian remarked with the same warm affection. “And nobody enjoys their old lover’s new flame, do they? We can hardly expect to hold hallucinations to a higher standard.” 

She nearly laughed, only catching herself with the reminder that laughter would hurt like a son of a bitch right now. Did she see Fynn? She couldn’t… 

A shadow moved by the window, drew her eye to it. The curtain fluttered as a wrinkled hand caressed it appraisingly. 

As if it were nothing out of the ordinary, Zarra Cadash looked over her shoulder towards Maria’s prone form, tsking in disappointment. “Is this how you take care of yourself when I’m expecting my first great-grandchild?” 

Maria’s scream pierced the air before she could choke it back, a mixture of terror that quickly turned to pain as she tried to recoil from the ghost of her grandmother, her hand throbbing and burning. 

A glass shattered, then Varric’s arms were around her waist, gentle and firm and she rolled with no small amount of effort, burying her head into the broad hard planes of his chest, hiding from the demon behind her. “Honestly.” Zarra sighed with as much exasperation as she’d ever heard before. “Is that any way to say hello?”

Varric spoke over top of the voice, ignoring it. Or, possibly, unable to hear or see her at all. “You’re alright, you’re going to be alright.” 

He smelled like the good whiskey she kept, or maybe it was just wafting up from wherever the broken glass landed. Her chest felt too tight, her heartbeat spiking unpleasantly, and the room was going hazy around the edges again. But Dorian’s heated fingers were already pulling her away from Varric’s chest even as she trembled, a flask of something tasting bitter and awful pushed into her mouth, something that made her cough and sputter. 

“How long does it take to work?” Cassandra asked, voice tense and sharp. 

“A minute. Perhaps two.” Dorian threw the bottle away and gripped her chin solidly between his fingers. “Stay with us this time, Cadash.” 

She was going to throw up the foul tasting medicine right onto Varric’s shirt, vomit with the echoing sound of her dead grandmother  _ scolding _ her for it. Her mind must have finally cracked, too much weird shit for even her to handle. Varric hummed a comforting note, her vision swirled, a blend of crimson and gold. 

Firm, gentle fingers grasped her unmarked hand and squeezed. “Maria.” Bea called, kneeling on the bed beside her. 

Cassandra prayed under her breath and Maria looked down the line of her arm to the fingers intertwined with her own, up into a set of matching gray eyes. Her eyes, Nanna’s eyes. “I’m going mad.” She sobbed through chattering teeth. Varric’s arm tightened around her waist stubbornly. 

“Not something mad people typically say, Princess.” He whispered softly against her hair. 

“Why?” Bea asked, expression uncharacteristically serious. “What happened?” 

Anger churned with fear, with the sick feeling in her stomach. She felt cold all over and Bea squeezed her hand again, eyes sharp as tacks. “If it’s Fynn, ask him if he’s got that stick out of his ass yet.” 

It shocked her, and it didn’t. It was exactly what Bea would say and it reassured her that some part of this horrid nightmare was real, and if Bea was real then Varric was, Dorian was, Cassandra was. The startled half-choked laugh that fell from her mouth brought a flicker of triumph to Bea’s eyes. Cassandra made a shocked disgusted noise in the back of her throat and even Varric chuckled weakly. 

She couldn’t say her grandmother’s name or trust her tongue to say any of the words without spilling the bitter brew on her tongue. She realized she didn’t have to almost immediately, moving her fingers over Bea’s hand, to the cold metal ring she felt against her palm. 

She stroked the crest set inside the ring, knew it like she knew the exact shade of Ostwick’s harbor when it rained or the signs it’ll snow in Skyhold. It was Nanna’s, if the world hadn’t gone to hell with her in the center of it, it would have been Maria’s someday. But it fit well on Bea’s slender clever fingers. Quick as lightning, Bea knew what she was saying. 

“Seriously?” She asked, leaning backwards. “I can prove to you she isn’t here. If she was, her and I would  _ certainly _ be in the middle of arguing.” 

Probably also true. The darkness around the edges of her vision seemed to be receding. She could feel the coiled tension of Varric’s arms wrapped tight around her, count the thundering beats in his chest in the space of her own fluttering unsteady heartbeat. 

“It’s working.” Dorian nodded in satisfaction. “Cadash, I know this is beating an old horse to death, but we really  _ can’t _ have you working yourself into a frenzy anymore or injuring yourself. Your hand can’t take it.” 

Her heart stuttered and she felt like confessing she didn’t think her hand was the only thing that couldn’t take it anymore. Still, she pulled back from Varric’s chest just long enough to look down at her wretched arm. 

The angry red skin looked hot to the touch, but that was a secondary concern. The bigger issue couldn’t be ignored - pulsing green lines under her skin, spiraling up her arm like Dalish tattoos, the creeping tendrils just scraping the top of her shoulder. She looked up from it in alarm, meeting Dorian’s eyes. Over his shoulder, her hallucination shook its head. 

“Yes, dear.” Zarra Cadash began shrewdly. “That is quickly becoming our main problem, isn’t it?” 

No, not the main problem. The main problem was more alarming. “Varric, you need to get that woman. Claude.”  

Varric didn’t say anything, only tightened his grip around her waist, avoiding her eyes. “Varric!” She snapped impatiently. 

“Maria.” Dorian began patiently, sadly. “If anything has happened, she will not be able to tell before you can. We can fetch a healer, but I doubt they’ll be able to sense anything past that damned mark in your hand. And if something has happened… I don’t believe they’ll be able to help. Not now.”

Beatrix’s fingers had been stroking her unmarked palm softly, but they stuttered to a stop nearly immediately. Bea was always too clever for her own good. 

She tore her eyes away from Dorian, back to Varric’s face. His jaw trembled with suppressed emotion. This, she realized belatedly, was a conversation that had already happened while she’d been unconscious. 

“Come.” Dorian’s robes rustled as he stood, meeting Cassandra’s eyes. “I think a moment alone is safe, for now.” 

Cassandra nodded and Maria noticed, for the first time, distinct marks from her teeth where she’d bitten into her lower lip. She hadn’t seen Cassandra do that since they’d found Lord Seeker Lucius raving madly. “You as well, Beatrix.” Cassandra stated firmly. 

Bea looked like she would argue for a minute, as stubborn as she’d been when she was a girl. Even after all this time, there was a trace of teenage mutiny in Bea’s expression. But then her shoulders slumped in defeat and she let go of Maria’s hand. “I’m coming back.” 

Right, Maria thought. She’d believe it when she saw it. She chanced a backwards glance over her shoulder, scanned the room for Zarra Cadash, couldn’t find her. She didn’t look back at Varric until the door clicked closed behind Cassandra’s back. 

“Is the medicine working?” Varric asked. He meant ‘are you still hallucinating’, she was sure, but that question seemed dangerous. 

“She’s not here, so maybe.” Maria had dangerous questions of her own she wanted to ask, but instead she swallowed them.

“Why is Bea here?” That was a safer question. Varric’s lips tugged upwards in a humorless smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“She followed us through the Eluvian, attacked the Qunari that meant to ambush us. An ambush of an ambush, as it was. Almost felt bad for the sorry bastards.” 

His fingers rose to her arm, not quite touching the blistering skin or the churning magic underneath. “I did this to you. If I’d have just thought for once before…” 

“It wasn’t you.” She couldn’t remember exactly what happened, but Varric wouldn’t hurt her. He’d never harm a single hair on her head, not on purpose. “Accidents happen, Varric.” 

“Not like this.” Varric whispered, smooth voice like brittle glass. “Damnit, Maria.” He shoved his free hand through the blonde hair falling from its tie around his face. 

She couldn’t catch her own breath, couldn’t steady her own heartbeat, but worry overtook her when she peered into his eyes. She’d never seen him look more broken. The words she’d been shoving down for too long finally boiled over, like a pot left unattended on a stove for too long. She’d already broken him, just like she always knew she would, deep down. Because that’s what she was, really. The price of loving her was pain, disaster, death. 

Not his death. Not this time. “I knew it was getting worse. I’ve known for awhile, I… you didn’t cause this Varric. It would have happened without you.” 

He wouldn’t die. She would. She grasped his free hand, pulled it away from his face. “I think that’s why Solas left. I think without the orb… I think he knew he couldn’t save me. I think he didn’t want to watch me die.” 

But Varric would have to, no matter how hard she fought it, no matter how long she lasted, Varric would be forced to watch her burn away. 

“There’s a way.” Varric growled. 

“I won’t stop looking for it.” She promised heatedly, pressing her lips against his calloused palm. “But the baby… I knew it was a bad idea. I knew the mark… I just wanted you to have what you wanted.” 

I wanted to give you everything, she added inside her own head, even if I wasn’t here to enjoy it with you.

“We don’t know for sure.” Varric whispered. “I don’t want to give up hope, Princess. Not yet.” 

His tone was pleading, begging. Hope was a dangerous thing, too fragile to exist in her life. And yet… for Varric, she could try. For Varric, she would always try. 

She blinked away the tears caught in her eyes and nodded, speechless. Varric tugged her back to his chest, tucked her head under his chin. “Alright.” She mumbled softly, forcing her breath to come even, deep. “Alright then.” 

 

_ I knew that I was dying. _ __   
_ Something in me said, _ __   
_ go ahead, die, sleep, become as _ __   
_ them, accept.  _ __   
_ Then something else in me said, no,  _ __   
_ save the tiniest bit. _ __   
_ It needn’t be much, _ __   
_ just a spark.  _ __   
_ A spark can set a whole forest on fire. _ __   
_ Just a spark. _ __   
_ Save it.  _ _   
_ __ -Charles Bukowski


	14. The Real Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is allowed to love her, but not to save her.   
> Beatrix Cadash wasn't born a monster, she made herself one.

She didn’t stand up as straight as she usually did. Instead, she curled inward slightly as she watched their group. As if she fought the urge to complete roll up into herself. Her eyes lacked their usual piercing clarity, but she listened attentively to the end of Bull’s translation. 

Bull threw the papers onto Maria’s desk with a dark qunari curse. “I just wish I knew what their plan was!” 

“Bull, if you knew, you probably wouldn’t be on my side.” Maria’s smile, frail and brittle as it was, still brought warmth to Varric’s heart. He saw the mountain of a qunari soften too. 

“Yeah, boss, I still would.” Bull rumbled gently. “The chargers are your men. Couldn’t have asked for a better job.” 

Dorian’s expression darkened in grief and he frowned bitterly down at his clasped hands. Varric bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. The sharp bite of pain dulled the deadly ache behind his ribs long enough for him to speak. “Keep in mind, Princess, he did  _ actually _ ask for this job, so he may not be in his right mind.” 

Although they’d all asked eventually, hadn’t they? One by one, even the people that had been with the Inquisition beforehand asked to stay with her, pledged their loyalty to her. Their herald, their Inquisitor. 

The love of his life. The mother of his child. 

“Inquisitor, finding and ending this Viddasala must be a priority.” Cullen reported in clipped, even tones. “I can send soldiers…” 

“We’ll go.” Maria interrupted. Cullen’s shoulders tensed and Dorian unleashed a torrent of blistering curses in Tevene. Fenris himself couldn’t have done better. 

“The concoction we poured down your throat is an anesthetic.” Dorian pushed himself off the chaise, stalking to Maria’s chair. “You’re in no condition to be having this conversation, making decisions, or shooting a bow straight, to be honest.” 

“I can shoot straight.” Maria argued seriously. “I can  _ always _ shoot straight.” 

“Maria…” Cullen began hesitantly.

Varric felt his chest constrict. Curly only called her Maria in the darkest moments, the moments he felt sure she’d be gone. He saw the realization flash over Maria’s face at the same time it hit him. 

“Cullen, I’m fine.” Maria lied through her teeth. “My inner circle and I can handle the Viddasala. It needs to be us, I won’t risk my soldiers.” 

Not even Cullen looked convinced anymore, and it was a bad day when even the Commander could see through the lies. 

“Not until the potion wears off, at least.” Dorian pleaded. “When it wears off, we’ll be able to see how bad the pain is. We can make plans then. Go back to bed, sleep for a few more hours.” 

“Our soldiers would gladly dive into the Eluvians if you asked them to, Inquisitor.” Cullen reasoned. “They’re well trained and loyal.” 

“They have families, Cullen. I’m not going to send them into that place when I barely understand it. I have no idea what they’ll run into.” Maria snapped. 

If Dorian began tearing his hair out, Varric wouldn’t be surprised. 

“You have a family too.” The words were soft, gentle. And he shouldn’t ask her, but he did anyway. Too many times, he’d let her go without saying it. “Don’t go this time, Maria. Just this once, don’t be a damn hero.” 

She turned to look over her shoulder at him while he leaned against the wall. The morning light caught her hair, turning it into a fiery halo. She was too pale by far, exhausted, hallucinating. She swayed slightly when she walked, too unsteady for his liking. She could probably shoot straight, he’d bet his life on Maria’s bow on her worst days, but she’d never be able to build one of her card towers. 

And Maker, she was still as beautiful as she’d been the first time he saw her, ordering him to duck while she shot arrows over his head. She’d been a damn hero then, too. He’d fallen in love with the quick witted Carta heiress with a heart of gold, the Herald of Andraste. 

And, miraculous, she loved him too. Loved him enough that he saw her falter under his plea. She’d given him permission to love her. He’d been allowed to hold her through the nights, to dance with her in his arms, to write love poems with his fingers all over her ribs, her thighs, kiss down the curve of her stomach and the hollow of her neck. He’d been given the opportunity to bring her to his home, to set her free in the warrens of Kirkwall and watch her vivid personality, her wild curiosity thrive. Maker, she’d even managed to make the guild dinners tolerable when she showed up on his arm. 

She wavered under his plea, but then she resolved something. “How long does it take to wear off? We’ll go then.” She directed the question to Dorian, turning away from him and Varric closed his eyes against the sight of her burning in the sunlight.

He’d been allowed to love her, but he wouldn’t be allowed to save her. 

 

Despite her protests, she fell asleep nearly as soon as she hit the bed again. A few hours, Dorian said. Mid-afternoon, then. Cole sat near the empty fireplace, fiddling with a collection of seashells that came from Maker knew where. Varric oiled Bianca at the desk, the methodical work doing precious little to soothe his nerves. Every second, his eyes were flicking to Maria on the bed, noting the shallowness of her breathing, the slight rattle on the exhale, as if she’d been stabbed in the lung. 

Varric put down one of the delicate gears, reaching without thought for the next one. 

“She’s asleep again?” 

If he’d been holding the gear, he’d have dropped it. Bea leaned against the balcony doors, left open for the warm breeze. Varric jerked his head at the door in a silent question. She followed his motion, smirking wryly. 

“I try not to be seen, Varric.” She strolled leisurely away from the door, straight to the glass bottles on one of the side tables. “Although a kitchen maid saw me this morning. That may turn into a problem, but hopefully I’ll be gone before it blows up and before Divine Stabby figures out what I’ve been doing.” 

“What have you been doing?” Varric asked suspiciously, setting aside both cloth and oil. Bea shot him an amused look over her shoulder, grabbing one of the bottles from the table, not bothering with a glass. 

“That’d be telling, Varric.” She winked, and for a second she looked so much like Maria in spite of their obvious differences that Varric felt his heart skip a beat. But Bea’s attention was on Cole and she sunk to the floor beside him with ease. “I heard a story from Cassandra…” 

“Cassandra doesn’t tell stories. You do, sometimes.” Cole said simply, tracing his finger down one of the shells lined up in front of him. “But you never finish them when you start. I tried to find the right shell for you, but these are wrong. I can’t hear the sea in them.” 

“I don’t need to hear the sea.” Bea shrugged easily, “Back to you, my favorite feral ghost child…” 

“The blade went deep.” Cole whispered. “You weren’t fast enough and it hurt, blood seeping through your fingers. The pirate queen screams your name, but you just laughed. Why?” 

“True.” Bea stretched her short legs out calmly. “Because he thought he was the monster.” 

“He was very large.” Cole admitted gravely. “And very angry, not like the Iron Bull.” 

Varric could picture it. An attack out of nowhere, perhaps when Isabela’s ships were in harbor. Was Bea in Isabela’s bed when the attack came? No time for armor, just a moment to grab blades and toss a shirt over her head. Isabela, reckless and wild, slashing as Qunari climbed over the sides, dashing among them with a certain joy, turning and seeing the blade cut into unprotected flesh. 

“It isn’t the big ones you have to watch out for, kid.” Bea advised, tucking a piece of brown hair behind her ear. “Now, tell me about what you saw. When Maria got hurt.” 

Varric wrinkled his brow, looking from Bea and Cole quickly to the bed. Maria didn’t stir, but this was a rather dangerous conversation to be having, and one he really didn’t fucking want to have. Fynn Dunhark was dead, and Varric didn’t consider himself a jealous man, but damnit, the man had his moment with Maria. Let him rest in peace. 

Cole felt his unease, looked from Bea’s shining eyes up towards him. Bea snapped her fingers impatiently in front of Cole’s wandering eyes. “Hey, focus.” 

“I didn’t see. She did.” Cole muttered, dropping his eyes down to the shells. 

“He said something? Cassandra wasn’t sure.” Bea narrowed her eyes. “C’mon kid.” 

“Let him be.” Varric muttered darkly. 

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” Bea protested, twisting her head to peer up under Cole’s hat. 

“He had the ring they ripped off her finger when they took her. His eyes were on fire, the way the docks burned and he rolled the ring between his fingers. He said Varric shouldn’t have opened the chest. He said… he said she’s dying. He said he thought she died before, but this time she’s really dying.” 

“You’re sure, Cole?” Bea pressed. “Absolutely sure?” 

“No.” Cole admitted. “But neither is she. It frightened her.” 

Varric wasn’t a jealous man, but he’d give a solid sovereign to punch doom and gloom Fynn Dunhark in his damn face. “Mittens, why does it matter?” 

“Maybe it doesn’t.” In a flash, Bea was back up, striding towards the balcony doors. Varric stood immediately, intercepting her before she could cross the threshold. 

“Suspense and mystery only last for so long before it gets boring.” He growled. 

“Fine!” She hissed, turning her steely eyes on him. She sighed, spinning on her heel and collapsing onto the balcony railing. She stared morosely out over the garden. “How many hallucinations do you think know things the person hallucinating doesn’t know?” 

“I’m afraid nobody ever taught me the rules of hallucinations.” Varric deadpanned. 

“Me either. But the alternative… that’s some weird shit. Even for her.” Bea mumbled. 

“You don’t think she’s hallucinating?” Varric asked in disbelief, joining her to lean on the railing. 

“No. Yes?” Bea shook her head. “I don’t fucking know. I thought… but the ring. I don’t know where it ended up, but if it was with Fynn… that would explain why we could never find it…” 

Varric waited patiently as Bea fidgeted with the signet ring on her hand before she fixed him with those big gray eyes, younger and softer in her face without any of her bravado. “Fynn  _ did _ think Maria was dead. I can prove it.” 

 

The parchment was old, brittle with age, cracking and splitting at the edges. Bea unrolled it carefully over Maria’s desk. The handwriting on it was bold, rushed. It almost gave the impression of being written in a fit of fury or grief, with splotches where the ink splattered. 

A dead man’s last letter. Lovely. No address, greeting, or salutation of any kind. Nor did the man bother to sign it. Just one sentence. 

_ The next time you see me, it’ll be when I kill you like you murdered her.  _

“Where did you get this?” Varric asked harshly. 

“Do you really want to know?” Bea chewed on the edge of her finger, eyes cast down. Cole reached forward, skimmed one long pale finger down the page. 

“He was coming for the monsters that hurt her. He should have slayed them to keep her safe, but he ran and she died. Coward, craven, crushed. Broken and burning.” Cole whispered. “Yes, this is him. I think.” 

“I know it’s his. I… I know.” Bea didn’t look up. “I found it in Nanna’s papers, but… I saw it on his father’s desk. I didn’t realize Nanna took it before...” 

Varric definitely didn’t like where this conversation was heading. He chanced a glance at the still form in the bed, lowered his voice. “Do I even  _ want _ to know what the two of you were doing snooping around a dead Deshyr’s papers?” 

“The blade cuts deep.” Cole’s pale eyes were far away. “From ear to ear, a gruesome smile. He didn’t think I’d do it. Blood drips down the blade  _ he _ made, onto the floor, and he stares. I want him to see. I want him to see my sisters eyes as he bleeds out, so I watch. I watched.” 

Suicide. That’s what Maria told him, what Maria believed happened. Fynn’s father couldn’t live with the guilt of causing his only son’s death, so he killed himself. It was a nice, tragic story. Too good of one, really. He should have known better. 

Beatrix Cadash had been sixteen then, was no older than thirty now, but the eyes that flicked up from the floor burned with ancient fury. He almost felt bad for the elder Dunhark, thinking he’d win against a slip of a Carta girl. “He wasn’t going to stop. I found the poison, I knew. He blamed her, but he killed Fynn. I had to stop him before he killed her too, you would have done the same thing.” 

“Zarra covered it up.” Varric let his eyes trail to the blade hanging off Bea’s waist. “Zarra covered it up, and you never told your sister what happened.” 

“She burned the shop down with him inside.” Bea’s eyes flashed victoriously. “We burned him, and I’m not sorry.” 

Shit. 

“I didn’t understand why Fynn believed him.” Bea continued, pressing forward. “He would have told Fynn  _ anything _ to make him come home, but Fynn believed Maria was dead. The assassins Dunhark hired contacted Nanna instead for a ransom, but I think they sent him something first. Something to prove Maria was dead, to get their payment from him, and they sent my mother’s wedding ring because Maria had already given Fynn my father’s. She said she was wearing it on her finger, not on the necklace.” 

Proof of a hit carried out. Not as good as an ear or a finger, but not bad. 

“So, Maria doesn’t know that Fynn thought she was dead.” Varric carefully rolled up the last letter, placed it back in Bea’s hand. “But her hallucination does.” 

“Which means…” Bea trailed off, bit her lip anxiously. It meant that it  _ wasn’t _ a hallucination conjured from Maria’s mind. It meant that it was something else. 

“You need to tell her. All of this.” Varric swept an arm over the letter, the blade on her hip. “She needs to know. It’s been nearly fifteen years, aren’t you fucking tired of keeping it a secret?” 

“I thought she’d hate me if I told her what I did. Fynn… he loved his dad too. Not at the end, I guess, but…” Bea shook her head. “I didn’t have the letter to prove it was what he intended to do. I didn’t have it until… but by then Maria had another reason to hate me. So it didn’t matter.” 

Bea’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I shouldn’t have written that letter. I shouldn’t… I was so angry. I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

“And the next two years?” Varric asked. “What the fuck have you been doing? Maria wrote, you had lots of opportunities to make up for being an ass.” 

“I couldn’t. I can’t tell you, Varric. I can’t tell her. If you know, it can come back on you.” Bea confessed, rubbing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I can’t risk it. I shouldn’t even be here. If I thought she could handle this Qunari thing on top of every politician in Thedas baying for her blood… I can’t let them hurt her. Or you.” 

Varric almost felt warm and fuzzy. He went to cross his arms over his chest and stare her down, but Bea’s eyes had already softened. She reached for his arm, touching the fabric of his shirt lightly. “Is she really having a baby?” She asked, wistful, hopeful. 

Varric deflated, casting another worried look towards the bed. “If I can get them both through this, yes.” 

Bea’s joyful smile brightened the whole room. “I’m going to be an aunt?” 

Only if we save her, Varric thought despondently. Only if the magic in her arm didn’t kill her, only if… 

But Beatrix threw his arms around his neck in an energetic tackle that nearly knocked him off center. “I’m so happy for you. For both of you.” She whispered against his shoulder, nails digging into the silk shirt. 

Bartrand wouldn’t have been happy. Bartrand would have been disgusted at the scandal. But Beatrix loved her sister, loved her enough to do anything for her. To kill an old man in cold blood to keep her safe. Varric knew she was right, he’d have done the same thing. 

“In spite of your shitty behavior and the dubious activities that are apparently too terrible to reveal to us, I’m glad you’re here.” Varric admitted. 

“For now.” Beatrix grumbled into his shoulder. “I’m still  _ not _ okay with this viscount’s mistress shit. What in the fuck were you thinking?” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” Varric stated quickly. Beatrix pulled back, narrowing her grey eyes. 

“Marry her, then.” She challenged, lifting her chin up. “Or so help me, Varric, you’re never going to be safe from the wrong side of my blades.” 

“Tell her what  _ actually  _ happened to Fynn Dunhark and his father, or I will.” Varric threatened in return. 

They stared daggers at each other until a groan from the bed broke the silence and they both drew apart, turning toward Maria immediately as she coughed. 

“Thirsty.” Cole mumbled. “Throats cracked.” 

“On it.” Bea said immediately, dancing away. That left Varric to approach the bed as Maria pushed herself up on one arm, the unmarked one.

“Balls.” Maria muttered. “I feel like I’ve been drinking with Bull.” 

“How’s your arm?” Varric asked softly, collapsing beside her gently. 

“Hurts.” Maria admitted, gingerly stretching out her fingers. “But it’ll be fine. I think. We need to get going, the Viddasala…” 

Varric bit back his own aggravated groan, barely. A glass of water clinked on the table nearby and Bea sat down heavily. 

“Excellent!” She cheered. “Should I round everyone up, or do you have a person for that?”

“Bea…” Maria groaned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

“Is Nanna here again?” Bea chirped. “Her and I never finished our last spat. Came up with the perfect line as soon as she walked out the door, you know how it is. I’d love to tell her now.” 

“What do I have to do to get you to leave?” Maria snarled, a wounded animal slashing out recklessly. Bea didn’t flinch.

“I’m not.” She stated firmly. “I’m not leaving you. You’re having a baby, you’re hurt, and you’ve got politicians so far up your ass I’m surprised you can shit. So, you can tell Cullen to come in, tie me up, and throw me in a cell, or you can let me help.” 

“Why?” Maria asked spitefully, leaning into Varric’s arm. Bea looked down at the quilt with a quiet sigh. 

“The Qunari thought he was the monster.” Cole said softly. “But it was you. That’s why you laughed.” 

Maria’s eyes flitted, confused, away from Bea and to Cole by the balcony. “The Maker made you lethal when he made monsters out of men, the Qunari didn’t know, but you showed him. Soft people become weapons when you hurt the things they love. When the Pirate Queen’s ships sink, when the tea smells like poison, when the templar with the red skin turns with bloody hands, you become what you need to be.” 

“That’s why.” Bea said simply, standing up. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. You need me, sister, whether or not you want to.” 


	15. How She Became Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a statue of Andraste in Ostwick, it's face worn away.  
> It looks like Maria Cadash, and a woman places flowers there for a girl who became the Herald.

_She wasn’t born her_   
_she found her_   
_over a long_   
_and treacherous road_   
_and the more treacherous_   
_the road became_   
_the more of_   
_her_   
_she found._  
\- Atticus

 

Maria loved libraries. She loved their vaulted ceilings, their rows of neat and musty books, precious and ancient. Nanna had a small one when they were growing up and Maria added to it as she grew. She wondered if she could still find her first copies of Varric’s first books hidden among the shelves in the house she grew up in, the one Bea owned now and by all accounts hardly ever visited.

She hated this library with a violent passion, however, born of both pain and coursing desperation. She started hating it when Cassandra ducked down, pulled a slim volume from a collapsed pile. “Have you finished writing the sequel to Hard in Hightown, Varric?” She asked, astonished, and frankly, indignant.

“Seeker, with what time?” Varric asked impatiently, one hand on her unmarked arm as they slipped past rows and rows of destroyed bookshelves. Cassandra simply wrinkled her brow, holding up the volume.

“How did Worthy’s trash end up here?” Varric muttered darkly as Maria took it curiosily, flipping it open. She knew the minute she let her eyes fall on the last line of prose that it was Varric’s. Varric, through and through.

_“Maybe.” Donnen shrugged, watching the waves turn dark in the distance. “Some days, I’m not sure all of me made it out.”_

Maria shivered before gently placing the tome back where it came from. Let the fade have what hadn’t been written yet.

When she caught sight of the scroll next to the blue marguerites she loved, she was almost too afraid to pick it up. It wasn’t signed, it wasn’t even finished, but she knew Varric’s writing better than she knew her own. He hand shook when she read it.

“What is it?” Sera asked, peering over her shoulder. “Dirty bits?”

“Nothing.” Maria replied instantly, dropping it at her heel. “Nothing.” She repeated.

“My woman is a battlefield.” Cole muttered. “Her mouth tastes like fear, blood, dust, fire, home. I’m scared she will blind me, burn me. I know she will.”

Varric’s shoulders stiffened and he shot a wary look over his shoulder at Cole. Not written down, maybe not anywhere else but this fucked up library in the weirdest place in Thedas, but definitely bouncing around in his head. She choked on bitter laughter, refused to let it pass her dry and cracked lips.

The same way she refused to favor her right side, the same way she ignored the pulsing pain that ignited and receded with every heartbeat. She kept drawing breath, shallow and uneven at times, but she took it as a win.

She felt like a battlefield in the aftermath of war. Aching, scarred, angry, uncertain. Had the battle been won or lost? Was it the first or the last?

She didn’t know.

“This place reminds me of those tunnels under Ostwick. Old and sad.”

That was the other thing she was trying desperately to ignore. Fynn kept pace beside her, had since they’d slipped into the damned shattered library. He was hard to look at directly, even if she wanted to (and she _didn’t_ ), his form seemed to flicker and meander to the side of wherever her gaze pointed. Everyone else ignored his less-than-helpful commentary. Everyone except Cole, who kept sending her worried and pointed glances every time Fynn decided to speak. Cole stopped and turned now, Sera nearly running into his back. She sputtered indignantly and Cole frowned past her at Maria.

“It’s alright, Cole.” The familiar response, weary as it was, seemed to appease him. Varric shot her a look from the side of his eye.

“Are you alright? Do we need to stop?” He asked gently, voice pitched low enough no one else could hear.

“Stop it.” She snapped impatiently. Varric didn’t hide the quick dart of hurt in his amber eyes well enough to fool her. She choked on the guilt immediately. “Varric, I’m fine. The sooner this is over, the better.”

She wanted to go home. She wanted to sleep.

Varric forced a smile, his fingers tightening reassuringly on her elbow before they loosened. From her side, although she didn’t turn toward the voice, Fynn sighed. “You’re so bloody stubborn, Maria.”

Her stubbornness kept her moving forward, on and on, despite Fynn’s death, after she fell from the breach, when she emerged from the nightmare future of Redcliffe, when she stumbled into a frozen wasteland broken and battered, alone in the ruins of Haven.

Forward, never back. Constantly moving, always running. One job to the next, one mission followed by another.

“You wouldn’t take no for an answer when you showed up at my father’s house. I’d just got done throwing out all his empty liquor bottles when I turned and came face to face with you. First time I’d seen you since you fell asleep beside me on Satinalia and vanished in the morning.” Fynn continued aimlessly. She saw a motion from the corner of her eye that might have been him stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I considered throwing you in the harbor.”

“The harbor is cold in Ostwick in the autumn.” Cole mumbled.

“The harbor is cold in Ostwick damn near all the time.” Bea muttered darkly in response, fiddling with two vials in her hand. She held one up to Dorian absently. “Help a girl out, Vint. I’ve only got two hands.”

Dorian had no choice but to accept the thrust out vial, which he examined curiously. “Andraste’s pillowy bosom, is this Wyvern venom?”

“No?” Bea held up the other vial, scrutinizing it.

“That is not a question that should _ever_ be answered with another question.” Varric sighed as Bea handed the other vial to Dorian, diving back into her pockets. “What are you looking for?”

“The saar-qamek.” Bea replied cheerfully. “I can’t remember where I put it.”

“Well, that could be interesting.” Bull responded in careful casualness. “The Qun always treated it with a bit more caution, but I respect a woman who can take a certain amount of risk when dealing with deadly and toxic substances.”

Bea winked up at the Qunari and Maria needed to remind herself that she didn’t want Bea here. She certainly didn’t want to laugh at Bea’s endless stream of thought, even if it was endearing and hilarious.

“I’m glad she’s here.” The fondness in Fynn’s voice made her heart squeeze uncomfortably. “I’m glad to see she hasn’t changed a bit.”

She wanted to tell him to stop, almost opened her mouth to do it, but stopped herself just in time. “She had a soft heart, just like you. I think she still does, underneath all that poison she lugs around.”

Maria rubbed a tiny circle on her temple. Bea _did_ have a soft heart when she’d been young, although the continued existence of it was debatable. She’d spent the day in tears after they’d emerged, unscathed and shaken, from the slaver’s tunnels. She begged Maria then to go back and save them and Maria replied with the dull answer her grandmother gave. Too much risk, let it go.

Meanwhile her wheels turned. She couldn’t take Bea, couldn’t risk it, but who else could she trust? Who else would have helped her?

Her hand sparked violently, sent a tremor up into her very teeth, and for a moment, she could see it. Ostwick, the way it had been that night. She could hear her own voice ringing in her ears as she stared down Fynn, his eyes alight with righteous indignation.

_I can’t go to the guards and I can’t do it alone. Please, help me._

Varric’s fingers, gentle, brushed against her cheek. Snapped her back to the present. “We can rest, here’s as good a spot as any.” He offered.

She began to refuse him almost immediately, but his expression was wounded and sad when he curled his other arm around her back, let his fingers lightly brush her abdomen. “Princess, think about us.”

Her mind whirled in confusion brought on by the sharp pain, grasping onto straws. She reminded herself of where she was, who she was. Her name was Maria Cadash, she was the Inquisitor, there were Qunari attempting to blow up the Winter Palace and if they didn’t stop it…

“I am thinking about you.” She was always thinking about him, the way the sun caught in his gold hair, his broken nose, deft fingers, clever twisting words. She took a step forward.

“When did you get so shitty at asking for help, Cadash?” Fynn whispered from her other side. She didn’t turn to him, focused instead on Varric, her lover, the one that was real. If Varric ever decided to haunt her, at least he’d make it amusing.

Maker, those lines were back around Varric’s eyes, stress and worry painting his features old before his time. Maria gave up.

“Fine.” She snapped irritably, rubbing her unmarked palm against her eyes. “We’ll stop.”

“Knew there was still some common sense in there.” Varric joked weakly, but his words were almost lost in Fynn’s rumbled laugh.

“I knew you could hear me, Maria.” He whispered. “I knew it.”

She pressed her palms tight against her eyelids until spots of color bloomed. She wasn’t going mad, she knew he wasn’t real. He couldn’t be real. She kept them covered even as she felt the ghost of Varric’s fingers over her wrist. “Talk to me, baby.” He pleaded softly.

The confession burned at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t say it. Somehow, “I’ve gone as crazy as your brother did before he left you to die,”  just didn’t seem like someone one should say to the father of their child. Was it red lyrium finally driving her mad? She’d been infected, but healed, and Fenris never seemed to have any symptoms from his far worse exposure…

But she’d been _around_ far more of it than Fenris had. She’d heard it sing in her head while she waltzed around the Emprise, while she followed fucking Bianca into Vallamar.  

“I just need to close my eyes. Just for awhile.” If she kept them closed for awhile, Fynn might vanish like Zarra had. A foolish hope, maybe, but the only one she could hold onto.

“We’ll scout on ahead.” Bea stated decisively. “Ten minutes?”

“Holler if you run into trouble, little Cadash.” Bull rumbled, sitting down on the cracked stones of the ruined library. She could hear his big body settle, the slap of his palm against the ground. “C’mon boss, sit down.”

She didn’t bother making her way towards Bull. That would involve opening her eyes, and she most definitely had no desire to do that yet. Instead, she sank down where she was, slipping from Varric’s grasp like water.

“You should tell Magpie I’m sorry.” Fynn continued to talk, his voice soft and warm. “She shouldn’t have had to clean up my mess. She was just a kid.”

 

_“I’m surprised you didn’t drag Magpie down here.” Fynn muttered from behind her shoulder as Maria dragged one of the guards into a shadowed corner. She looked up just in time to see Fynn roll the other guard into the opposite corner._

_“She’s just a kid.” Maria replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Did he have any keys?”_

_“I’m not going through his pockets.” Fynn huffed. “Like a common…”_

_His jaw snapped shut when she raised one eyebrow, resuming her own search. He muttered something about his ancestors, turning to kneel beside the other man. Maria bit back her smile at his grumbling._

_“I’ve got ‘em.” He growled. She heard the clinking of metal and stood, stretching as she did. He held them in the crook of one of his fingers, as if afraid to let more of his skin touch them than absolutely necessary._

_She shouldn’t find the whole situation a bit hilarious, but she did._

_“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Dunhark. It’s not like we’re ransacking the corpses of fine upstanding citizens.” She teased, patting his cheek with light affection as she slipped the keys from his fingers onto hers._

_She pointedly ignored the softness of his beard against her fingers, bare and whole. She also pretended not to notice the spark jump into his eyes at the touch of her bare skin to his. Playing with fire, she reminded herself sternly, best not to…_

_“Figured a Carta brat could pick a lock. What do we need keys for?” He asked, shouldering the warhammer over his shoulder as he trailed after her. Maria paused inside the door, reaching for the unlit torch she remembered from her first visit to the chamber. She fumbled with a flint and a match until it ignited and she held it out._

_It only illuminated a small portion of the room, barely any of it really. And yet, she heard Fynn’s sharp intake of breath. What it revealed were dozens of bright eyes, reflected in the glow of her torch. Hard iron bars holding bodies pressed tightly against them. “There’s a lot of locks and we don’t have a lot of time. Keys are easier.” She whispered._

_Fynn was so quiet beside her she had to look up to examine his reaction. His jaw was tense, a vein pulsing in his temple. He slowly grabbed the torch from her hand, jerking his chin at the nearest cage. “Better get started then.”_

_Her fingers flew, eyeing each lock, each key, discarding the used ones off the key ring as soon as the doors opened. There were soft, hushed voices. Scared, wide eyes staring at them. Elves, mostly. Unsurprising, elves were always the damn first target, but she saw some human children. Nanna said, sometimes, poor villagers sold their own kids for extra money and one less mouth to feed._

_Maria fervently hoped that wasn’t true, but she didn’t know. And when she got to the last cage, she slipped the last key in, only to have her stomach drop into the soles of her boots. She knew, immediately, the key was wrong. It wouldn’t squeeze into the slot correctly, wouldn’t hit the tumblers. “Shit.” She whispered, dropping the whole ring._

_“What is it?” Fynn growled, the torch sputtering above him, casting his face into dark shadow. Maria moved as quickly as she could, pulling flashing silver lockpicks from her pocket._

_“Sweetheart.” She called gently to a young girl with deep brown eyes, her pale pixie like face white with fear. “Hold this torch, can you?”_

_The girl’s hand trembled, but she reached through the bars, her slender fingers wrapping around just above Fynn’s. She stared down at the top of Maria’s head and Fynn slowly released his grip._

_“You need to start moving.” Maria ordered, concentrating on the lock in front of her. “I’ll open this and come up behind. Get them out of here.”_

_“No.” Fynn replied instantly. “Not happening.”_

_“Did I stutter?” Maria asked, aggravated. “Dunhark, this isn’t the fucking time to fight with me. Go.”_

_She could feel his glare, even as she didn’t look up. “Stone take me.” He finally swore, turning on his heel. She could hear his voice, soft and firm, ordering the freed soon-to-be slaves to follow him up. Maker, she hoped he didn’t get lost._

_“Hurry.” The girl above her squeaked._

_“Don’t worry kid.” Maria whispered, biting her lip until it swelled beneath her teeth. “I don’t leave people behind. Promise.” The lock was tricky and she was nervous, her fingers trembling as she tried to breathe, to remember the careful motions, the click of the tumblers, and then it finally popped free and Maria nearly collapsed in relief, standing and wrenching the door open._

_The girl with the torch was gripping a child in one of her hands. Maria took the torch quickly, jerking her head into the darkness. “Come on, we’ve gotta go.”_

_“Thank you.” There were tears standing stark in the woman’s eyes. “Thank you.”_

_Maria cringed internally. “Don’t thank me yet. Or ever, really. Just go.” She shoved the slim elven girl forward, peering over her shoulder as they darted out of the cavern._

 

_She realized they were being followed before they’d even made it halfway out. She could hear heavy bootsteps behind her, coming too quickly. But then they came to a fork in a tunnel and Maria paused, thoughtful. “You’re going straight, follow the wall. There’s a ladder about fifteen minutes walk, it’ll take you up. The other dwarf will show you how to get to the guard.” She instructed, pointing into the darkness. “I’m taking the torch and I’ll lead them off. I think this tunnel goes towards the smuggler’s harbor.”_

_She hoped it did. If she was right, there was a fighting chance she’d lose them. The smugglers harbor was a small cove with a rickety dock, used to get materials out of Ostwick that couldn’t be bribed past the port authorities, just out of view of the actual harbor._

_If she could make it to the harbor, she’d be home clear. She’d bet significant money nobody knew the harbor as well as she did._

_“We can’t!” The girl cried in distress._

_“You can, and you will.” Maria hissed, shoving her forward. “Now, go!”_

_And before the girl could argue, Maria veered left. The other group ran forward into the blackness and Maria waited, breath in her throat, heart pounding with adrenaline under her skin. She waited until the footsteps were so loud she knew they had to see her torchlight flicker around the corner. She waited until she heard the first angry Tevinter curse._

_Then she turned and ran into the yawning, dark abyss in front of her._

_She didn’t really believe in stone sense, it seemed a lot of nonsense used by the dwarves stuck in the deep roads to justify why they were better than the ones slumming it in the sunshine. Still, she couldn’t help feeling like she knew the path ahead of her, despite never traveling it before. Maybe the fear sharpened her senses, but she swore she could picture the alleys and warrens of Ostwick above her as she ran. The men making noise behind her were growing fainter, and Maria could smell the ocean, salt on her tongue, a biting chill from the cold night. Then she pushed through a battered old trap door and raised her head._

_She emerged in a warehouse, somewhere. She extinguished the torch and eased herself up as quietly as she could, pulling an arrow and knocking it in preparation. The shadows were deep, dark, but nothing stirred. She let out a sigh of relief, standing and sauntering towards a window, opening it briskly before launching herself through. The waves crashed against the docks nearby and Maria relaxed by degrees. She hadn’t come out at the smuggler’s cove, but right at the farthest end of the docks. It would be a quick detour to Fynn’s shop to let him know she hadn’t died, to check and make sure he hadn’t been seen like she instructed him not to be, and then she could sneak safely back into her bed where Nanna would find her completely innocent in the morning. A job well done._

_She grinned in satisfaction, brushing the dust of the cave from her pants before swaggering forward onto one of the sturdy old docks, the boards groaning beneath her as she walked. She hummed a note from a tavern song under her breath._

_Then she heard the dock behind her groan under the weight of someone else._

_She twisted as quickly as she could, arrow notched and ready, flying at the first sight of the pale figure. It was a perfect shot, should have landed right in between the bastards eyes. It would have, if not for the fireball that scorched her arrow right out of the sky. The one that Maria threw herself onto the docks to avoid._

_“You’ll pay for this dearly.” The man said cooly, his voice like ice slipping down the back of Maria’s shirt while she scrambled back up. “After I kill you for your interference, I’ll be paying a visit to collect on the debt from your family. Who was that pretty little thing holding onto you earlier today? The one that was so very, very frightened of the evil Magister stalking in the shadows?” He mused, the moonlight catching his too sharp teeth._

_“I think I’ll sell her to someone who likes them innocent. See how she does when he shatters every bone in her body. After I take my pound of flesh, of course.”_

_“Or.” Maria lined up her next shot, tensing in readiness. “I’ll kill you.”_

_“Dwarves are resistant to magic.” The man smirked. “Not immune.”_

_She noticed the blade in his hand, but something in her head didn’t click. And when he drew the edge across his skin, when the blood welled up like ink in the darkness, she still didn’t understand. She didn’t realize until she smelled sulphur in the air._

_By then, it was probably too late. She hadn’t believed, really, in demons and monsters. Sure, you heard about them, but if they existed at all, that’s what the templars were there for. Blood magic seemed more like a cautionary tale about the evils of mankind rather than anything she might face down in a street fight. She found herself woefully unprepared for the unbridled assault on her mind._

_She shot off one more arrow, but it went way wide of the mark. Her bow felt strange in her hand, unreal, heavy. Her fingers fumbled when she reached for another arrow, her mind fogged, a small voice telling her not to resist, to allow it, to lay down her bow._

_It seemed so damn easy to let it fall from her fingers, the thunk of it on the dock far away._

_“Good girl.” The man in front of her chuckled as something oily slicked over her skin, curled itself further into her mind. “Very good girl.”_

 

Something clenched inside her, jarring her from her memories. Her heart skipped a beat in fear and she slowly took her sweaty palms away from her eyes, wiping them on her trousers before gently sweeping her hand up her abdomen. She looked up from the ground, caught Varric’s eye as he stared down. Concern was written on every line in his beloved face.

“We’re alright.” She lied, dredging a smile up onto her lips despite the effort. “Stop worrying.”

It would be so fucking easy to let her bow drop from her fingers, but not again. Not ever again.

“The Vidda-whatever is up there.” Bea reappeared, one dagger dripping blood, her dark hair falling out of its braid. “Ready to go?”

Maria ignored the next wave of crashing pain, one that seemed to roll through her body like the waves against the docks. “Yes.” She answered decisively, reaching up to take Varric’s hand and pull herself up. “Yes, let’s get this over with.”

“They thought you were sent by the Maker before anyone else did.” Cole said softly, unsheathing his own blades. “They still remember your face, but they never knew your name. The girl with the brown eyes still lives in Ostwick. She married a man with gentle hands. She remembers you every day.”  

Maria didn’t know her name either. She didn’t know any of their names, never learned them.

“There’s a statue of Andraste by the market, tucked in a corner. Her face is worn away, but it looks like you.” Cole continued on. “She leaves flowers there, makes her children do it too.”

Bea tipped her head to the side, a quick smile flashing over her lips. “I always thought I was the only one who thought that statue kinda looked like you. Nanna told me I was nuts.”

“I thought so too.” Fynn’s hallucination said quietly from over her shoulder. “It used to make me laugh when I saw it.”

“That’s where it started.” Cole nodded his head, as if deciding something for himself.

“I always love listening to Cole’s conversations. It’s like having a conversation with a drunk puzzle maker.” Dorian rolled his eyes, but Cole simply looked up as if the answer was obvious.

“That’s where she became her.” Cole stated. “Not the breach. Not the avalanche. It was there, in the tunnels, on the docks when the bow fell. She was her then. She became herself.”

“That sounds like a good story Princess. You should tell it some time.” Varric’s warm voice rushed over her, soothing her growing nerves.

“It was just one night.” Maria shrugged. “And probably one of my stupider decisions.”

“It wasn’t one of your finest moments.” Bea added, shifting from one foot to another impatiently.

“But it was the night I realized I was in love with you.”

The words were laden with emotion, so raw and honest she couldn’t help but turn to look. She was able to pin Fynn down in the center of her vision, to notice his eyes were soft, warm, no inferno trapped within them. His admission caught her by surprise, made her throat tighten with matching emotion of her own.

“What’s it?” Sera asked, following Maria’s gaze, landing confused on the spot Fynn occupied. The spot, she was sure, appeared empty to everyone else.

“Let’s go.” Maria’s voice sounded cold to her own ears, and she ripped her eyes away, turning back towards her team. “I want the Viddasala gone and I want to shatter that mirror so I never  end back in these damn Crossroads.”


	16. A Good Man Goes to War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's burning, and taking every bit of his heart with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious trigger warnings for this chapter (will update tags momentarily):
> 
> Consensual, but definitely not safe or sane semi-explicit sex  
> Discussion of impending death  
> Implied/referenced miscarriage  
> Blood in disturbing places 
> 
> This is by far the darkest chapter of this story, and I can't imagine it'll get darker than this, so if you stick it out I promise this is the worst.

Demons run   
_when a good man goes to war_   
_night will fall_   
_and drown the sun_ _  
when a good man goes to war_

 

Mittens found the saar-qamek she’d been looking for, apparently. When the Viddasala went through the Eluvian in front of them, after coldly ordering twenty-some qunari to kill the Inquisitor, Beatrix whipped something out of her pocket and informed them all, loudly, to get the hell out of the way.

Varric, catching sight of the shining silver (were those gears?) in her hand, had been distracted. Maria pulled him back by the cuff of his jacket, behind one of the shattered pillars. “When Bea says move and pulls something out of her damn pocket, you move, Varric.” She growled, almost playful.

The tone made him snap his gaze to her, even in the midst of the unfolding chaos. For a brief moment, a small amused smile twitched at her lips, her eyes were steely and bright. If you ignored the paleness, disregarded the fact that she trembled even as she pressed herself flush against the crumbling, ancient stone, she was almost her old self.

It only lasted for a breathless second before her eyes slid somewhere over his shoulder, fixed on something for a heartbeat. Then she ripped her gaze from where it landed, focused back on him with a steadying blink of her eyes, uncertain again. Frightened and burying it.

Varric knew there wasn’t anything there. He’d examined every space she did this to closely, looking for…something. A flicker of shadow, a blink of light, a ghost or a demon, he didn’t fucking know anymore.

“Boost me up?” She asked, pointing to the crumbling ledge above her. “I’ll pick them off.”

Well, he wouldn’t argue with that plan. Having her up high and out of reach sounded like the best thing he’d heard all day.

“I live to serve, beautiful.” He began gallantly. It made her smile, just a small twist at one corner of her lips. The small, secret smile that belonged only to him. “Five gold says I shoot twice as many as you.”

Normally, she’d laugh. Tell him he was on, or that she’d rather bet five hours of him in her bed than five gold. But instead, when he bent to wrap his arms around her thighs and lift her to the ledge she stopped, ran her gloved hand over the hard line of his jaw. “I think I’d lose that bet today, love.”

Any reassurance he could have offered died on his lips at the shattered expression she wore. Instead, he turned his cheek to press against her fingers. “Well, it’s about time you let me win one. A man’s ego can only take so much.”

It was the right thing to say, because it brought forth an amused scoff even as a tremor wracked her body. He’d never even know that she was suffering if his arms weren’t wrapped around her lush thighs, she didn’t betray a single flicker of the pain she felt on her face.

Varric thought he knew strength before he met Maria Cadash, but he had no idea. Maybe she couldn’t match these Qunari for brute force, but if willpower could be quantified, she had enough of it to topple the world. Varric thought, brokenly, that if her body had the power of Maria’s spirit, she’d carry on forever, the epitome of every fairy tale hero he could write. His heart ached, full to bursting with love, with worry, with all the warmth and hope she’d ever left in her wake. He couldn’t be more proud of this glorious, triumphant woman. _His_ woman.

If they made it out of this one, he was whisking her away to somewhere warm, sunny, and blessedly far away from both Orlesians and Qunari immediately. Then, he was going to marry her, fuck whatever the guild had to say about it. It would be the perfect ending to a perfect story, the dashing rogue turned honorable by a compassionate, clever heroine.  

But this wasn’t a fairy tale, he reminded himself. This was a tragedy, and his writer’s heart knew it from the beginning. “Watch out for the ugly one.” Maria advised, snapping him from his reverie.

“Right. Real specific.” He chuckled weakly, lifting her up. Her unmarked hand grasped for the ledge first, followed (with a grimace) by the anchor bearing arm. She pulled herself up, bow slung free from her back, and dashed away from him. Varric followed her lead, slinging Bianca off his shoulders. She didn’t hear his whispered plea. “Watch yourself, Princess.”

 

She didn’t watch herself. Varric couldn’t muster much shock, and he noted sourly that if he ever came face to face with the Maker or Andraste, he was going to have words about taking better care of the heroes they sent to do their bidding.

It wasn’t _really_ her fault, either. She was the target, because of course she fucking was, when wasn’t she, and twenty-five Qunari were a lot to handle, even for their skilled band of murder-happy misfits. Particularly when at least five of those were the fucking Qunari mages, trained to obey their masters no matter the cost to their own welfare. Varric saw enough of them in Kirkwall, would have happily shaved off his own chest hair to never encounter another one.

The saar-qamek helped. Varric caught sight of the clever little device Maria’s sister threw abandoned on the ground. A silver disk comprised of layers of delicate gears, hollow on the inside, apparently. Someone had fashioned a reusable grenade that could be loaded with any sort of poison Beatrix Cadash could turn into a gas. Varric didn’t quite bite back a startled laugh of disbelief when he caught sight of it next to the corpses of the qunari that hadn’t been quite quick enough to get away from it. He knew that fine, delicate work. He held another example of it in his hands right now, and there was only one woman capable of it. Shit.

Yeah, whatever Beatrix had spent two years doing, Maria certainly wouldn’t be happy about it when she found out. Particularly if it somehow involved Varric’s missing former lover.

“Hang on, boss!” Bull bellowed from across the field.

“Ah, shit!” Sera joined in, spotting the trouble that made Varric’s stomach drop somewhere around his knees.

A monster of a Qunari mage staggered towards Maria, second only to the one that vanished with the Viddasala. The bastard had several arrows already jutting from its skin, all fletched with Maria’s green feathers. Unfortunately, she only seemed to have made it angrier. It snarled through it’s stitched lips, a mindless sound of impotent rage and blood lust that made Varric’s hair stand on end.

Or maybe that was the electricity that flew through the Qunari like he was a lighting rod, erupting in an arc towards the ledge Maria perched on. She twisted to the side to avoid it, just in time. Dwarven resistance, thank the Maker, meant that the lightning didn’t keep trying to find its target, but that it cracked through the ledge instead.

Although when the ledge itself began to disintegrate under Maria’s feet, dwarven resistance meant shit. Varric slid a bolt into the hulking creature’s shoulder, but the Qunari didn’t even flinch.

It couldn’t have been higher than eight feet, but it was certainly a fall Maria didn’t need to take. She landed on her good side, at least, rolling a short distance from the ledge. Almost immediately, she staggered up to her knees, bow held in shaking white fingers, eyes burning brightly. “Cassandra!” She shouted. “A little help over here would be appreciated!”

Varric knew what she wanted, the Seeker to muffle the mage’s magic just long enough for her to put an arrow through his eye socket. Unfortunately, Varric couldn’t see how that was going to happen. Cassandra was locked sword to sword with a Qunari warrior, her face drawn with effort, blade flashing in the eerie light of the crossroads as fast as it could. The Qunari in front of Maria was pulling mana again, Varric could feel the crackle of ozone.

Well, time to be a damn hero then. Varric began to run, dodging one of Vivienne’s blasts of ice, underneath Bull’s sword.

Maria did manage to get a shot off, although it bounced off a barrier summoned effortlessly by the mage. Another arrow was drawn immediately, but he saw her eyes flick around, looking desperately for another plan.

He didn’t have any saar-qamek up his sleeve, but he had a flask of acid, and that would just have to do. He lined up his shot, eyeballing it quickly. “Hey ugly! Kadanshok defransdim vashedan!”

Varric’s pronunciation, according to Broody, could use some work. Varric also sincerely hoped that the phrase meant what Broody said it did. Whether or not the mage understood him, Varric couldn’t say, but the large qunari turned with a visceral snarl, the magic in his hand crackling in his direction instead of Maria’s. He tossed the flask in a smooth arch, just missing the burst of lightning heading his way, splattering across the Qunari’s armor. It bellowed loudly, but Varric didn’t have time to feel pleased. He tried to roll away from the lightning strike, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. He felt the electricity in his teeth, smelled the putrid scent of hair burning. Then he felt the sharp sting of the lightning, the racing prickles up and down his skin that laid him flat, made him groan.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Qunari fall, an arrow decorated with green feathers protruding from a dark, bloody eye socket. Then she was beside him, her sweet scent not quite enough to overpower the charred odor of burned hair. He groaned again, closing his eyes.

“Hey, hey.” She whispered, hands running over his shoulders, his arms. “Look at me, Varric. C’mon, look at me.”

Well, whatever she asked for, he’d try his damnedest to comply. He opened his eyes blearily, staring up at her against the gray sky as she crouched next to him. “You alright, Princess?” He asked groggily.

“That was the fucking stupidest thing I’ve _ever_ seen you do.” Her voice trembled with unshed tears, with a nearly hysterical wave of laughter.

“Hey, Tethras.” Bea’s face appeared over Maria’s shoulder. She held up one slender finger, her middle one, with a wicked and sly grin. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He chuckled, despite the weak protest of his ribs. “Fuck you, Mittens.”

“No thank you.” Bea wrinkled her nose, sweeping her critical gaze over him. “Wouldn’t know what to do with that rug of yours, ‘specially when it’s singed like that.”

Varric didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“What in the hell did you yell at him?” Maria asked, her unmarked hand resting at his pulse. He saw her counting the beats of his heart, her gray eyes focused on the place where her fingers touched skin.

“Qunlat is a damn verbose language, but if I did it right, something about kicking him in the balls.”

Maria shook her head in exasperation, but the expression only lasted for a second. Something was boiling around them, magic simmering in the air. Power he could only begin to guess at, raw energy more dangerous than anything the Qunari wielded. He saw the light glowing, burning out of Maria’s arm. Heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Get down!” She shouted, pulling Beatrix to the stone with her unscarred arm, holding the anchor above her head. It was like the day she’d defeated Corypheus, the orb in her hand, the breach drawing its power through her like a rod. Varric saw their assembled team, her greatest friends, launch themselves to the ground as quickly as possible. Trusting in her orders, obeying them mindlessly because they knew she had their backs. Maria _always_ had their backs.

The energy that exploded from Maria’s hand lacked any of the finesse she had when she tried to manipulate it on purpose. It was raw, angry, and judging by the choked scream coming from Maria, painful.

It whipped through the air, shattering the bones of every Qunari left standing, tossing their broken bodies to the ground with a bang like thunder, like a sonic wave. Varric saw another of the old Elven ruins crumble. And then, as quickly as it began, it was over. Maria pitched forward, catching herself on her hands and knees, poised over him and Beatrix, both of them watching her in slack jawed terror.

One of Maria’s hands fluttered to her abdomen, then stilled. She closed her tear filled gray eyes against the sudden, inescapable quiet.

 

 _Friendship dies_   
_and true love lies_   
_night will fall_   
_and the dark will rise_ _  
when a good man goes to war_

 

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen gawked at all of them, eyes lingering over bloodstained armor, sweat and grime slicked faces, Maria’s flickering anchor casting angry shadows around them as it crawled up over her bare shoulder. “What happened?”

“We’ve got a coded message in Qunlat.” Maria began through gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching her fist repeatedly. “Which means I need Bull and Leliana to figure it out before we can go anywhere else.”

“She had some news as well, about gatlock. I’m uncertain what she has discovered, I will find her.” He nodded, jaw tight, taking one last pointed look at the anchor. “Are you well, Inquisitor?”

Varric tried hard not to scoff at the stupid question. Cassandra didn’t quite manage it, letting out a noise that immediately had Cullen flinching.

“We’ve fought our way through an assortment of demons, shades, and rather ferocious qunari. In addition to that, our esteemed leader took a rather nice tumble off a wall and Varric got electrocuted. Ignoring the fact that the anchor is continuing to spread...” Dorian replied with sarcastic nonchalance.

“Her anchor is giving us a migraine, dear.” Vivienne complained with a dispirited sigh. “It’s been a trying day.”

“Do I look like _I’m_ enjoying it?” Maria snapped.

“The anchor is degrading and slipping out of our control.” Dorian continued. “I need every mage worth their salt to help me in coming up with a plan.”  

“You’re confirming my long-held suspicions they’ve only kept you around because you’re pretty, Commander.” Bea teased despite the darkness haunting her eyes, fluttering her eyelashes more on instinct that with any real desire. Color rose immediately to Cullen’s face and he sputtered, taking a step backwards as if Beatrix could corrupt him merely by being within five feet of him.

“Mistress Cadash…” Cullen began, eyes darting everywhere besides Bea’s provocative eyes.  “Yes, there are…. some shady looking dwarves lingering. Over there. I am hoping they belong to you.”

“Balls.” Bea’s game stopped in a heartbeat. “I sincerely hope they don’t.”

“Bea, what…” Maria twisted to look over her shoulder, staring at her younger sister’s face with an expression torn between aggravation and a touching amount of concern. Amazingly, Bea softened under the scrutiny, and without the snarky facade and cheerful bravado, she looked ten years younger. She also looked more frightened than Varric cared to see. “Nothing.” Bea replied immediately, shaking her head. “Nothing for you to worry about, anyway. Get Varric into a bath so he can inspect his chest hair damage. I’ll catch up later.”

Quick as a flash, Bea pressed her lips against Maria’s pale and flushed cheek, squeezed her sister’s arm, then vanished. Maria watched her go, crossing her arms over her abdomen, concern knitting her brow tight. “Has Leliana figured out what she’s been doing yet, Cullen?”

“Not yet.” Cullen answered. “Inquisitor, you should take the chance to rest. When we have decoded this message, I will retrieve you.”

Cullen, surprisingly, reached out for Maria as well. His heavy palm rested lightly on her shoulder, affectionate understanding passing from one to the other. Slowly, wearily, Maria lifted her own hand to rest it on the back of Cullen’s, nodding just once as she patted his hand. “Thanks, Cullen.”

She didn’t say it, but the unheard ‘for everything’ echoed across the room. Cullen nodded as well before removing his hand. It clenched itself into a fist as it dropped to his side, and Varric saw it shake with suppressed emotion.

It looked too much like a goodbye. Felt too much like a goodbye. Maria turned her face to him, and yes, Varric could see it now. Every old statue of Andraste, covered in sadness like a veil, features worn smooth with time, carried a haunting echo of Maria’s features. Even her small, crooked smile, the one she saved just for him seemed sad. “C’mon. Let’s go inspect the damage. I swear it isn’t as bad as Bea says.”

“I will go retrieve that potion. The one that dimmed the pain.” Dorian chattered noisily into the heavy silence. “It will…”

“No.” Maria shook her head, stepping forward alone past Cullen. “No, I don’t want to be numb. Not now.”

Not at the end, she meant.

 

He watched her when they got to her rooms. Watched her when she sent the guards outside away, eyes flashing as one tried to argue. She asked one, before she left, if her little sister was still at Skyhold. The young woman answered, flushed and pleased at the attention, smiling sweetly as they backed down the hall.

That kid would remember the Inquisitor taking the time out of her day to remember that, to talk to her, for the rest of her life. That, perhaps, was what had made Maria special from the start. She couldn’t hope to know every single person in Skyhold, every single refugee battering down her door, but Maker she tried.

Maker, she tried _so_ damn hard.

She shut the door behind her, clicked the lock and rested her head against the sleek, dark wood while her eyes drifted closed. “Maria…” Varric took a halting step forward, pressing one hand against her back. She took a deep breath, opening her eyes.

“I just want to be alone with you.” She admitted softly. “That’s what I need right now. Just me and you, okay?” She turned, her eyes scanning the room with no small amount of trepidation. It was, Varric realized, like she hadn’t been talking to him at all, but someone else. She nodded once to herself, as if satisfied the room was empty, that she’d banished whatever ghost was haunting her.

“You can’t give up.” Varric clutched at the shirt she wore, stained with blood and Maker knew what. “Listen to me, it’s not over, and you can’t…”

Please, he wanted to beg. She moved one of her fingers to his lips, shushing him as she placed her forehead flush against his. “I’m here with you.” She brushed her lips to his temple and Varric felt something burn suddenly in his throat, water clouding his vision. “Touch me, please.”

Her voice cracked on the last word and Varric couldn’t help but close his eyes against the tears threatening to spill over. “I can’t.” Not like this, he wanted to scream, not with you burning up in front of me and taking every damn piece of my heart with you.

“Please.” She removed her finger from his lips, pressed her own against his instead. There wasn’t any teasing, no quick light touches, nothing to drive him mad. Only this fierce, burning, unquenchable need pouring through her like the magic ripping her body apart. She pulled back, and Varric could see tears like diamonds stuck in her own lashes. “Varric…”

She tasted like the ashes of everything Varric ever wanted. She tasted like poison, like venom that would stop his heart cold after he drank everything she offered. “Stay with me.” He begged, the tears falling down his cheeks. “Just stay with me, Princess. It’ll be okay, we’ll figure it out. Just don’t leave, alright?”

He’d made plans to redo the Viscount’s Keep, to throw Aveline’s training dummies into the catacombs. He’d give her a study of her own overlooking the ocean where he could sneak those blue flowers she liked into all her papers. He’d build a nursery where he could read to their little girl, tell her stories about her mother, her aunt Hawke, made-up maidens transparently based on his Sunshine who fought dragons and commanded armies.

Maria pressed her lips against his again, full of desperate longing, barely concealed panic. He broke away, threading his fingers through her blood red hair, staring into her eyes like he could memorize her, make her immortal. “Promise me you won’t leave me. Promise. I don’t care if you have to lie, just promise me.” His voice cracked, shards of ice instead of words.

“I’ll never leave you.” She whispered, her unmarked hand pressing close against his heart. “I promise, I’ll stay.”

He knew she was lying. She knew she was lying. Her eyes were the same color as ashes and she was burning alive like Andraste had.

He crashed his lips back to her, nothing gentle in this kiss. It was as raw as the skin on her right arm, all sharp edges and teeth. It was a dam breaking, the one that drowned Crestwood, that took the Qunari in the deep roads. It was every ounce of pain, every bit of agony. She was real against him, pressing her trembling body flush to his as if she’d dissolve right in his embrace.

They fell backwards onto the bed, too frightened, too desperate to worry about discarding all their soiled clothes. She wasn’t ready enough, he tried to tell her when she slipped her nimble fingers under his breeches, but she guided him into her anyway. As if this sweet pain, both his and hers, would erase the burning in her arm that was drawing her life to a close.  And damn it, if she wanted his pain, she had it. She could have all of it.

He was already hers anyway, and if she was burning, he was going up in flames too.

It wasn’t until after they were spent that he realized that the blood smeared on the white sheets wasn’t all from their armor. It was from her hand, small cracks in his skin smearing blood as she gripped them for purchase.

It was from the juncture of her thighs, a small smear on her thigh that spelled the end of hope.

 

“She’s gone, Mittens.” Varric leaned his fevered forehead against the cool glass, flicking his eyes away from Bea’s wavering reflection. She’d paused, staring at the bloodstained bed before turning her attention to his back.

“Gone where?” She asked softly, as if she was frightened to startle him. He honestly had hoped she’d stab him when she saw the evidence, the guilt laying all over the crisp white sheets. End it cleanly, take her rage out on him.

“Cullen. Whatever shitty Orlesian sitting room they’ve turned into a war room.” He couldn’t keep the rough tears from his voice, but he’d shed them all. His eyes, red and bloodshot, stared back at him as he stared unseeingly out of the glass into the opulent gardens.

Maria loved flowers. They’d decorate her pyre with them, if there was enough of her left to have a pyre.

“She lost the baby.” Bea’s guess sounded flat, echoed hollowly in the room. Varric didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Losing, I think.” Varric stated, his tongue thick in his mouth. She was losing their baby and he was losing her.

“I sent my people away.” Bea’s voice, soft as it was, dripped poison. “It was too dangerous here for them. They wanted me to go, but I wouldn’t. They said she’s dying, they said…” Bea’s voice trailed off. “They said Nanna wouldn’t want both her girls to die here. That’s what we fought about, you know, the last time I saw my grandmother.”

He turned away from the window, staring at Bea as she looked at the crime scene of their bed. She had tears in her own eyes, her fists clenched tight. “I heard she was going to war in the Arbor Wilds, I told Nanna I was going to her. Nanna forbid it, said she wouldn’t have us both die in the dirt. So I let Nanna leave, alone.”

Where she’d been ambushed by the red templars, where Zarra Cadash had died in the dirt. Bea laughed, a bitter and humorless sound. “Typical. I’m always getting myself out of danger. Avoided Haven. Avoided the ambush on the way to Markham. My family takes the fall instead because I fucked up.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Varric would love to blame it on her, blame it on someone, but he couldn’t. The only person to blame was Corypheus, and the bastard was long dead.

“The anchor, it got worse the minute she went into the crossroads?” Bea demanded, turning her fierce gaze to his, her jaw tense and tight. Varric nodded mutely, staring at the bloody sheets in a silent horror that left him immobile, broken.

In a sudden jerky motion, Bea turned and walked to the desk, reaching down to haul up the crossbow leaning against it. It weighed probably damn near as much as she did, but she lifted it with nothing but a small grunt, holding it out to him. “C’mon, Tethras. I’m going to make those Qunari bastards pay for all of it. For Bela’s ships, for dragging Maria into this fucking mess, for killing…” She stopped, unable to finish, her eyes flashing bright with pain. “We’re going to war, and we’re going to make them bleed. For the baby, for Maria.”

Mutely, Varric reached out and took Bianca from Beatrix, the familiar weight alien in his hands.

  
_Demons run,_  
 _but count the cost_  
 _the battle’s won,_  
 _but the child is lost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demons Run is a poem that may have been written by the creators of Doctor Who, or it may be older, I'm not entirely sure.


	17. Into the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She failed Varric, she failed them. 
> 
> Maria gives up and goes into the abyss.

Maria sagged against the wall, shifting the dagger in her hand so it caught the dim torchlight, reflected it in a dull spot on the wall. She didn’t need to check her own reflection in the surface, she knew she looked like shit. She could feel it with certainty in every aching bone, every nerve on fire, every clench of her muscles. 

Still, she tipped the dagger just right, caught sight of her own pale eyes staring back at her. 

 

_ The blade shook, her hands trembling as she raised it to her own throat. She didn’t want to, she didn’t… but on and on her hand went until she could feel the edge just a hair away from her pale skin. She kept her blades sharp on Nanna’s advice and, wildly, her mind brought up the point that at least it would be quick. It would be damn insulting to have your throat slit by a dull knife. She’d laugh, if her body was hers to control anymore, if she wasn’t just a prisoner in her own skin.  _

_ He made her look down at the blade, her face shoved down as roughly as if he’d grabbed her by the hair and twisted her neck forward. She could see her own eyes reflected in the shining surface, illuminated only by starlight, by the moon rising unfeeling and cold above them.  _

_ “Should I have you slit your throat first?” The man mused, and Maria’s hand moved on it’s own volition up to her own cheekbone, the blade dragging lightly against her skin. She felt the sharp bite, just a scratch, but enough for blood to well up, to fall down her cheek like a tear.  _

_ “Or should I make you carve that pretty face of yours up, first?”  _

_ She rattled the bars of the cage she’d been shoved into, the one at the back of her mind. She wanted to scream, to rage, to throw her dagger into the sea, pick up her bow and….  _

_ Her hand moved the blade down again, tracing the flat of it against her skin like a lover. Not enough pressure to draw blood, just enough to toy with her, to remind her of other soft touches. She recalled fingers against her face, the way Fynn touched her on Satinalia. Like he’d longed for a place to worship, like he’d found it on his knees between her spread thighs.  _

_ She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. She was going to be forced to stare into the mage’s face as she killed herself with her own damn blade.  _

_ She wouldn’t be able to picture her sister, her grandmother, or Fynn. She’d die alone, in the dark, at the hands of a fairy tale monster. A monster who was going after them next.  _

_ “If you beg me, I might make it quick.” The man was laughing at her. Suddenly, her mouth was her own again, her breath coming quick and hard. She struggled, but her hand didn’t move, the blade stayed right where it was, level with her throat. _

_ “If you touch them, I’ll destroy you.” She growled out, a snarl that was meaningless. What was she going to do when she couldn’t even pull her own blade from her throat? The mage laughed. _

_ It was the last sound he ever made.  _

_ The war hammer hitting the man’s skull appeared out of nowhere, shining silver in the moonlight. The man’s laughter ended abruptly, but it echoed in the harbor as he fell, the side of his skull caved in. He swayed dangerously, left, then right, before his body collapsed in on itself, dropping into the harbor with a loud splash.  _

_ The blade fell from her fingers, bounced on the dock, then followed the mage into the murky depths with a definitive plop. Maria gasped for air, one hand flying to her unmarred throat, the bead of blood that had dripped down her cheek sliding over her chin as she looked down at her booted feet. Then he was there, smelling of fire, smoke, iron, and heat. His hammer in one hand, braced for another attack, the other grabbing her shoulder roughly, calling her name in relief.  _

_ He asked her a question, but she didn’t hear it over the blood roaring in her ears as she stared into the water beneath the docks. He shook her shoulder, called her name more insistently until she looked up at him. His eyes flicked in a panic over her face, catching the blood trailing down her cheek, the curve of it over jaw. Slowly, tenderly, her brushed the droplet away. “Are you hurt?” He asked, slower this time.  _

_ “No.” His hand was still on her chin. She fought the urge to lean into his touch, soft, simple, not cold metal against her skin. “My knife, I lost it…”  _

_ “Forget about it.” He ordered gruffly, his hand dropping from her chin.  “I’ll make you a new one.” _

_ He picked up her bow, pressed it into one of her hands, then twisted his fingers with her and pulled her away from the bubbling water.   _

 

_ He took her back to the forge, bundled her in the back door before latching it behind them. Maria’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking, although whether it was fear or a lingering effect of dark magic, she couldn’t say with any real certainty. He sat her one on the benches, vanishing for a moment. When he returned, he had a damp cloth that smelled like elfroot. He sat, heavily, one booted foot on each side of the bench, so close she could feel his body heat against her cold skin.  _

_ “Did you get them all out?” She had to consciously try to keep her teeth from chattering. “And to the guard?”  _

_ “Yes, and they didn’t see me. I swear.” He answered briskly, slowly moving his free hand to her chin. “Hold still, let’s get this blood off your face and take care of this before it scars.”  _

_ “Would it be a wicked looking one?” Maria asked, fixing her eyes on his. “You know, that’s the only thing I’m really missing as a carta dwarf. A cool looking scar.”  _

_ “It looks like you somehow got a papercut on your face.” Fynn growled. He brought the cloth up, touched it lightly to her skin. She flinched away from the cool wetness of it and he paused, his other thumb stroking across her chin softly. “Sorry, no hot water. Would take some time to get a fire going.”  _

_ “Maybe you shouldn’t have killed that mage.” She joked, voice trembling.  _

_ Fynn swore, his grip tightening on her chin. He pressed the cloth against the cut on her cheek and she noticed, for the first time, his fingers were shaking as much as hers. “I’m sorry. Was that your first time?”  _

_ “It was not!” Color rose quickly to his face and he glared into her eyes. “I’ll bleedin’... I know what I’m doing, and you know it. You certainly weren’t voicing any complaints when I...”  _

_ “I meant.” She bit her lip to stop the laughter. “Your first time killing a man, Dunhark. Not your first time in bed.”  _

_ She kind of wanted to call him an idiot, but she supposed he had just swept in and saved her life (plus Nanna’s and Bea’s) so she’d cut him some slack. He huffed out a breath, ripping his eyes from hers to focus on the cloth gliding over her skin. “No.” He admitted. “Had some attempted robberies. Here and at my father’s, but it didn’t end well for the would be thieves.”  _

_ “I’m sorry.” Maria lifted her hand, pushing his arm down and away from her face as she leaned backwards out of his grip. She dropped her eyes to her lap guiltily. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. It was…”  _

_ “If I wouldn’t have been there, you’d be dead in the harbor.” He twisted away from her, standing with the bloodstained cloth twisted between his fingers. They were still shaking. “Or worse.”  _

_ Worse, probably. She cringed internally, dropping her hand to the pouch at her side, pulling the loop clumsily. She dug in it a moment before pulling out a rolled up piece of parchment, placing it on the table behind her. Fynn watched her movements carefully, sizing her up as she stood. Her knees felt wobbly and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever warm up again, but otherwise she felt fine. Fine enough to flee from the intensity of his gaze. “I… I shouldn’t have tricked you into that game. It was wrong, I should have respected… even if you’re wrong, and you are, it’s your decision who you work for.” She swallowed hard. “The contract is void. You can tear it up. I won’t come to collect, neither will Nanna and Bea. You have my word.”  _

_ The quiet felt oppressive and she couldn’t stand his burning eyes on her, not for a second longer. It made her remember his rough, sure touch. It made her wonder if she was imagining the edge of pain in his voice when he talked about what could have happened to her if he hadn’t been there.  _

_ “Thanks.” She began, lamely, turning to the door. “For the daring rescue. For everything.” _

_ “I thought I could get you out of my system.”  _

_ Her hand was on the door knob by the time he spoke. His voice, low, gravelled, hoarse and desperate. “I thought, if I just had you for one night, I’d be able to get you out of my head.”  _

_ Yep, her knees were definitely not right, but now she didn’t know whether to blame it on the blood magic or on him.  _

_ “But I can’t.” He continued on, his voice growing louder as he crossed the room. She couldn’t look, if she looked she’d be lost.  _

_ “You waltzed into my life and upended all of it. You’re… dangerously pragmatic. I don’t know if you have a moral compass at all, I don’t know if you believe in anything, I’m not sure if it even really matters to you.”  _

_ “If this is your idea of poetry, Dunhark…” She muttered, fingers tightening on the knob. She needed to wrench it open, needed to escape, to run into the night and forget this. Forget all of it.  _

_ “You sneak my apprentices sweets.” He accused.  _

_ That made her laugh, look over her shoulder on instinct. She couldn’t read his shadowed expression well enough, it was too dark in the forge. “Ah, yes. My sinister plot to corrupt children by providing them candy when you yell at them. You’ve caught me.”  _

_ “They adore you, wait days for you to come in. And I don’t remember when I started waiting too, but I did.” He growled. Danger, her mind screamed. She went to turn, fumbling to find the knob, but his solid arm pushed out, grabbed the knob so she couldn’t.  _

_ “You cheat at cards but you throw coin to beggars in the street. I’m pretty sure you’re employing street urchins to spy on the guards for you. You flirt with absolutely everyone…” He was close enough to see now, every burning spark in his eyes. “With me, more than anyone else though. You’re merciless. And the minute I finally surrender, the minute I see you with those damned flowers in your hair and decide I have to have you, you vanish in a puff of smoke. I’ve considered whether or not you’re pursuing some kind of vendetta against me, a plot to drive me mad.”  _

_ “Not intentionally.”  _

_ The words made him smile, a slight twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. “And then, when I’ve finally decided I’ll have nothing more to do with you come hell or high water, you show up and ensnare me in a plot that puts you and your whole family at risk, to save people you don’t even know. Why?”  _

_ “When you say it like that, it seems pretty foolish.” Her hands were shaking again. She pressed her palm back against the door, leaning against it and away from Fynn. “Let me go, Dunhark. Let me leave you in peace if I’m driving you insane. You never have to see me again.”   _

_ He let go of the doorknob, his arm falling away, leaving her free and unpenned. Free to dash out into the night, to forget him, to forget this whole mess. “I want you to stay.” He whispered. “But only if that’s what you want. I see you, Maria Cadash. I see who you really are, and I want you to stay, I want you to continue to drive me mad. I just… I want you.”  _

_ Disaster, her mind screamed. “What about the girls your father keeps parading in front of you?” She asked, fighting the tremor in her voice. “What happens when one of them catches your eye?”  _

_ What happens when you break my heart?  _

_ He laughed, a soft thing that curled in her chest, warmed her from the inside out. “Do you honestly think any of them could hold a candle to you?”   _

_ “Damn you.” She cursed, her decision made in an instant, her arms around his neck in the next. She hadn’t even realized it was what she’d been waiting to do, what she had wanted desperately, until he whirled her away from the door, swept her into his arms.  _

_ Swept her into the abyss. _

 

“You were a child then.” Zarra Cadash trailed wrinkled fingers over the sketched map of the crossroads laid on the table. “Such a bright, beautiful child. But I knew, Maria. I always knew.” 

“Knew what?” Maria asked dully, sliding the dagger back where it belonged, in the belt cinching her coat closed. Cullen left to fetch Josie and Leliana, stated he’d be back in a minute. It felt like he’d been gone twenty. 

It was odd, that these were probably the last moments of her life, and she wanted nothing more than for them to be over. She couldn’t bear it anymore, the silent accusation of failure in Josephine’s face, Beatrix’s furious thirst for vengeance, Dorian’s desperate attempts to save her, Varric’s shattered heart and empty eyes.  

Her own body betraying both her and the child she wanted more than anything. 

“That you would set yourself on fire before you realized you couldn’t conquer the sun.” Zarra sighed, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes. “I could never have assumed you would build a revolution, that you would cause empresses and kings to tremble before you, but I knew.” 

Zarra turned her weary face to Maria’s, expression absolutely wretched. Her voice trembled with suppressed emotions. “I knew we’d never see how old age looked on you. I knew you would break my heart.” 

Oh, good. Not just a disappointment to her living relatives and friends, but the dead ones too. It was telling that at the end, her mind summoned her grandmother to tell her how very disappointing she’d been as a granddaughter. 

“No.” Zarra said softly. “I was never disappointed in you. I have always been so very proud of you child.” 

From behind her, Fynn huffed in disbelief. Zarra’s eyes flicked over in sharp disapproval. “Your taste in men could use some work, but every great woman must have her flaws I suppose.”

“Stop.” She begged, leaning on the edge of the table. She wore Varric’s coat, his leather duster too big on her smaller frame. It smelled exactly like him, cheap ale, parchment. There was a spot of ink staining the sleeve and someone would need to tell the laundry to get it out,  but that someone wouldn’t be her. Not anymore. 

She’d become a broken, sharp thing. A battlefield, Ostagar when Loghain abandoned it, Hercinia up in flames, Kirkwall after the chantry exploded, Haven burning before she buried it. She’d broken Varric too, the one thing in her life she swore she wouldn’t break. She hunched her shoulders forward, breathing through the sharp pain that nearly washed her away. Her vision swam, cleared when she shook her head. 

“Leave me alone.” She pleaded to her hallucinations, to the ghosts haunting her. “Please, just leave me alone.” 

“Do you think we loved you so little that we’d let you face this alone?” Fynn asked, moving forward, his big hand settling next to her own. 

“I’m not alone.” She spoke through clenched teeth. She  _ wasn’t _ alone. Cullen was coming back, with Josie and Leliana. Varric and Beatrix were here, somewhere, and they’d go into the Crossroads with her, one last time. So would Cassandra, Bull, Cole, Dorian, Sera, Thom, Vivienne. All of them. 

The power of the anchor wracked her frame, created a small vacuum she just barely contained from becoming a full fledged explosion, slamming her other hand hard on the table. The only sign of the near miss was a fluttering of some of the papers to the floor. 

“Solas always said if this was separated from you, it would explode, yes? That is why it could not simply be cut off.” Zarra crossed the room, setting her jaw as if to do battle. “You are quickly losing any control you exerted over that thing. If it continues to degrade, you are as much a risk to Halamshiral as the Qunari.” 

She couldn’t allow that, wouldn’t allow it. She’d saved too many of these damn people to be the cause of their demise now. She swallowed hard, and Fynn whispered softly next to her. “You’re not alone now, but you will be.” 

“No I won’t.” A tear trailed down her nose, landed on the papers in front of her. “I won’t be alone. I have our baby, the one I’m killing.” 

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly against everything, the pain, the despair, the failure. 

“Oh, Maria…” She could hear the tears in Zarra’s voice, but she couldn’t open her eyes. 

“We’ll be with you, at the end.” Fynn promised in the darkness. “We’ll be waiting.” 

“Stop!” She ordered weakly, her own voice barely above a whisper, digging her nails into the polished wood beneath her. 

“Inquisitor?” Leliana asked. Maria opened her eyes, blinked away tears before she looked up. 

All three of them wore matching expressions of alarm and concern, but Maria straightened. Just a bit longer, she could hold out just a bit longer.

“We have the note translated?” Maria asked, pushing away from the table. As suddenly as they came, her ghosts were once again gone. “Report.” 

 

And just like that, listening to the three of them, Maria felt the last threads unravel. Not only were there Gatlock barrels being removed, as swiftly as possible, from every damn city in Thedas, but her people put them there. 

Betrayal, she thought wearily. Maybe that was the price she had to pay for leaving those miners to die in the dark like her parents did. 

“Where, exactly?” Maria interrupted. “The palace in Denerim, Val Royeaux, and where in the Free Marches?” 

Leliana paused, unwilling to tell her. And yet, she did, plowing bravely into it. “The palace inhabited by the Prince of Starkhaven and his heir.” 

“Audrey.” Maria stated flatly. “The one whose mother I killed.” 

“It was not you.” Cullen growled. Maria held up her hand, silencing him, letting her eyes bore into Leliana’s.

“Where else?” 

“Kirkwall, as well.” Leliana stated calmly. “The Champion is already aware and steps are being taken. Gatlock was located in the Viscount’s palace and in the Champion’s cellar.” 

She supposed the good news about dying was that she didn’t have to ever see the silent recrimination in Fenris’s eyes when he learned that she’d nearly been responsible for the death of his beloved wife and baby son. 

“The Champion has already sent a letter.” Josephine stepped in smoothly. “That she understands you are not to blame, that she holds no ill will and that she looks forward to seeing you again, soon. She kindly requests you take care of yourself.” 

She wasn’t going to see Hawke again. She reached up, pressed her palm against her throbbing head, tried to take a deep breath through lungs that felt like sandpaper. 

“The Inquisition can still do good.” Cullen snapped. “The world…” 

“I fought to save the Inquisition from the Exalted Council, and for what!” Josephine shrieked. The noise pierced her ear drums, redoubled her headache. “We have deceived and threatened those we claimed to protect!” 

Cullen jumped to his own defense, Leliana made small, soothing noises. It would dissolve into chaos unless she stopped it, unless she…

She felt the pressure build again, pain flaring along every nerve ending, every bit of her vibrating at the seams. She tried to choke it back, to keep the power from flinging out, uncontrolled, from harming these beautiful, wonderful people.  _ Her _ people. 

She caught it, just barely, but it cost her. Her scream echoed off the stone walls, blackness swirled around the edges of her vision, sparks lingered at the corners of her eyes as she shook, reeling from the agony. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest and everything inside her clenched in protest. 

She slammed the anchor down on the table, looked at her palm. Blood spilled down her skin, snaked across it in rivulets, staining the paper underneath it, sinking into Varric’s coat next to the ink blot. Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana were deadly silent, six eyes latching onto her. 

“Inquisitor!” Josie moved first, papers flying as she abandoned them, racing to her side, pausing with her hands hovering uncertainly above Maria’s shoulder. Slowly, Cullen and Leliana approached as well. 

“I’m sorry, Josie.” Her voice sounded wrong in her own ears. “I let you down.” 

“No.” Josephine protested, tears shining in her eyes. “No, you could never…” 

“I have written to a friend.” Leliana clasped her hands tightly in front of her, as if praying. “Dorian convinced me it was necessary to call in all help available, I should not have waited so long. She will be here soon, she may be able to help, if you only…” 

“I can’t.” She whispered, but she wanted to scream, to shake them. “I can’t! I’ve… I’ve done everything you wanted! We saved Ferelden, we saved Orlais, and it didn’t fucking matter!” 

Her heart pulsed, another traitorous, uneven beat. “I closed the breach,  _ twice, _ and I don’t have anything else to give you. I’m done. I’m dying, and I don’t have anything else for Thedas to take.” 

She’d given them everything. Her past and her future. She gave them every waking hour for two damn years, every searing stab of pain in her hand, every  _ fucking  _ arrow she shot. 

She gave them her heart, her soul, and for what? For this mouthful of ashes, for the last memory of Varric’s broken soul, to be haunted by the people she loved and couldn’t save as she burned away. To die alone, her only company the baby she couldn’t save. Her lips trembled as she spoke.

“I need to get to this Darvaarad, I need to stop the Qunari from taking innocent people with them. And then, I need to die. I need to die fighting, because that’s how I’ve lived. It’s the only way I know how.”  

That is what Inquisitors did,  died fighting. Ameridan had known that, had told her in the few brief words they exchanged. 

The silence felt like a weight around her neck until Leliana broke it. “Thank you, Inquisitor.” There were tears in her eyes as well. “Thank you, Maria, for all you have done.” 

“Would… would you like us to inform the Exalted Council of the danger?” Josephine’s voice quavered. 

“Yes.” She decided. “I won’t make your job harder, Josie. I imagine it’ll be easier to find peace with the Inquisition without the Inquisitor, anyway.” 

“I will inform them, personally.” Leliana cut in. “Josie, you’re right. Your job is difficult enough.” 

“I will put guards at the Eluvian, in case the qunari invade.” Cullen was gripping his sword too tightly. “Perhaps… perhaps you will find a way.” 

It was what he’d told her at Haven, but she was out of ways to survive. Out of tricks.

Out of reasons to continue on. She’d failed Varric, failed them. 

“I need someone to write back to Hawke. To tell her…” That she was so sorry about this more than anything else. She choked it back, steadied her voice. “Varric will need her. She needs to be ready.” 

“Of course.” Josie whispered. “I will, personally. I promise.” 

“She should… she should know…” She bit her lip, shut her eyes before freeing it again from between her teeth. She couldn’t look into their faces for this. “I was having a baby. Varric might not tell her, but she needs to know.” 

Everything was silent, then Josephine burst into sobs. Even with her eyes screwed shut, Maria couldn’t block them out. 

 

One more thing, she needed to do one more thing before she crawled back through the Eluvian for the last time. Luckily, blessedly, for the first time, Cassandra seemed to know exactly where to find her. The Seeker was waiting at the end of the hallway leading to Maria’s room. She leaned against one of the pillars, but as soon as she caught sight of her, the woman straightened. 

“My friend.” She greeted softly, and Maria could see her eyeliner was smudged, her eyes red. Maria took a shallow breath, tried to fill up her lungs with as much air as she could.

“I need you to promise me something. Before we go to the Darvaarad.”

Cassandra’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Anything.” 

“I’m not coming back.” The admission felt like a weight off her chest. A stone finally falling downhill. “I can’t, Cass. This fucking thing…” She looked down at her arm. 

“I can’t control it. I can’t promise I won’t hurt anyone.” 

“Then I will stay with you.” Cassandra said briskly. “It is I who dragged you into the Inquisition in the first place, I will not leave your side. Not now.” 

“You have to save Varric.” She still loved the way his name felt in her mouth, cherished like a jewel. How many more times would she get to say it? “He’ll try to stay, but you have to stop him. Drag him out, kidnap him again, I don’t care. Whatever it takes to get him and Bea out, to get them to leave me behind.” 

“He will not go.”

“Make him.” She tried not to sound like she was begging, but she realized she was. “He’ll hate you, I know, and I’m sorry to ask you. But you’re the only one I can ask.” 

Cassandra’s piercing eyes burned a hole right through her. “And where?” She demanded crossly. “Where should I drag the man to after I force him to abandon you?” 

“It doesn’t matter. Get him and Bea to the Siren’s Revenge. Drag him back to Kirkwall and let Hawke try and put him together again.” She swallowed, hard, on the next words. “If he wants to go back to Bianca, don’t stop him.” 

Cassandra scowled, loyal as always. “I would rather kill him myself. Besides, she has been gone for nearly two years.” 

“Bea knows where she’s at. Or at least knows where to start.”

“Why? Why would your sister know where she is?” Cassandra uncrossed her arms, glared daggers down the hall as if she’d put the question to Beatrix herself if she could. 

“Bea always kept her secrets.” Fynn whispered, reappearing at the corner of her eye. “But she wouldn’t do it to hurt you.” 

No, never to hurt her. 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Maria let her shoulders slump in defeat. “Nothing matters anymore, Cass. Let him be happy, if he can be.” 

“You matter.” Cassandra’s voice wavered. “You have mattered more to me than I could ever have thought. You are my truest friend. I cannot… she does not love him as you do.” 

Nobody could love Varric like she did. But Bianca had loved him a little, she thought. Not enough, not nearly as much as her man deserved, but sometimes a bit of love could make the difference. 

“Promise me, Cass. Please.” 

“Damn you.” Cassandra rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes briskly. “I promise, if it is what will comfort you now, then yes. I will take him wherever he wishes to go, after…” 

She couldn’t say it. Maria watched the Seeker swallow it, watched it sit heavy in her chest. Then Cassandra did something that Maria could never have prepared for, would never have expected in a hundred years. 

For a warrior, Cass could be quick when she wanted to be, all agile, lethal grace. The Seeker sunk to her knees in a second, pulled Maria to her in the next, wrapped her arms tight around her middle. Maker, it hurt, Cass had never been gentle. But, then, everything fucking hurt right now and it was kind of nice to be wrapped up in Cassandra’s too long arms. “I have not given up faith in you. Not yet.” Cassandra whispered fiercely against her neck. “The Maker will preserve you. He  _ must _ .” 

Maria, slowly, wrapped her arms around the Seeker. Cassandra let her fingers splay over the hair at the back of Maria’s neck. That’s how Varric found them, only moments later. 

“They’re waiting.” He said softly, and she knew he meant her team had assembled. She knew he meant it was time. 

It was time to go into the abyss. 


	18. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria's team finally finds the order they can't obey.

_ Merciless, the fire did not spare her mortal flesh. _ __  
_ And while Hessarian heard over the roar of the bonfire _ __  
_ The cheering of his magisters, he also heard the distant _ __  
_ Song of the faithful mourning their Lady. _ _  
_ __ Chant of Light, Apotheosis 2:10 

 

The sparks exploded in the night sky above them, a sudden cacophony of noise and color. It drew Maria’s attention, made her pause on the staircase and look out over the railing towards the red, glittering light extinguishing as quickly as it started. Another rocket shot up as the first faded to ash, shattering gold, reflected in her silver eyes. 

She liked fireworks, but these ones didn’t even make her smile. She watched a third erupt before she turned from them, tucking a piece of loose red hair behind her ear in a gesture so familiar and comforting, it made him ache all over. She swept an exhausted gaze over the remaining steps before continuing to trudge up them. Varric followed, helpless, in her wake. 

He thought watching her burn would be bad. Watching her give up was much, much worse. He missed the joyful, cheerful swagger of her hips, the defiant and rebellious gleam in her eyes. Varric looked at her now and saw… nothing. As if somebody carved out everything that made Maria herself and left an empty shell behind. 

If Varric felt like being honest, it was pretty much the same way he felt. Like he’d been scraped raw, then filled with nothing but pain, grief, despair, and fear. 

He thought his heart broke when Bianca never met him at the docks, thought it shattered when Bartrand ( _ fucking _ Bartrand) showed up instead. Thought he’d pulverized it when he shot his brother in the heart. Then he’d left Kirkwall in flames, waited for letters that never came, and thought it couldn’t possibly get worse. 

He could laugh at himself now, at the folly of it, if he thought he’d ever laugh again. No, if he survived this last shattering of his heart… he’d find a quick way to make sure he didn’t survive it by very long. 

Beatrix sat on the top step, turning a dagger over and over in her hands. Varric didn’t need to examine it closely to know which one it was, it was still attached to the belt that had been wrapped around Bea’s waist. Bea’s careful, deft fingers traced the swirling initials on the handle, the intricate M intersecting with an equally fancy C. She held it out to Maria as she climbed the steps, her hand steady despite the rioting emotions swirling in her eyes. Varric saw the sparks flash in them too as the fireworks continued. “Here, you should have this. I’m sorry about the other one. If I’d have known, I’d have sent this back to you long ago.” 

“It’s yours, Bea.” Maria carefully pushed the blade back towards her sister. “I gave it to you.” 

“To remember you by, when you ran away and I refused to go with you.” Bea refused to budge, insistently holding it out. “I remember, I was there. But it belongs to you, and it always has.” 

Maria hesitated, but that was enough for Bea to quickly reach around her sister’s waist, looping the belt closed, tugging it tight. The blade rested on her left hip, where Beatrix always wore it. Maria, Varric remembered dully, preferred to wear hers on her right. Still, neither woman moved to adjust it. Instead, when Bea’s hand lingered on Maria’s waist after tightening the belt, Maria’s unmarked hand grabbed it. “Bea, go home.” 

The order was clear and it was impressive that Maria could still sound so authorative with her body failing on every count. But Bea shook her head. “Don’t ask me again. I’m not leaving you.” 

“I wasn’t asking.” 

Bea’s laugh sounded humorless, choked. She shook her head again, as if to clear it. “I’m not leaving and I’m not staying behind. For the first time, I’m right where you and Nanna need me to be, and there are… I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

“If it’s my forgiveness you’re after, I’ve got as much to apologize for as you do.” Maria began quietly. “But you’re forgiven, Bea. You always have been.” 

It was his storyteller’s imagination, but Varric saw the two women the way they’d been twelve years before. The first time that blade changed hands, when Maria begged her sister to come with her and Fynn, start a new life somewhere else. Varric knew there’d been an argument, knew Beatrix refused to leave Ostwick, the Carta, and her grandmother. 

Varric knew two girls ended up staring at each other much the same way they did now. And he knew what happened next.

“Don’t go.” Beatrix pleaded, echoing what she’d said so long ago. This part of the story he’d coaxed from Maria, when she’d had a bit too much to drink and he’d been winning a game of cards for once. “Please don’t leave me.” 

Maria didn’t say anything in return, ripping her eyes away from Beatrix and climbing the last stair. Bea raised her hands to her mouth, covering it to muffle the sob that she couldn’t hold back any longer. 

They were all waiting at the Eluvian, faces grave and heavy. Each set of eyes fastened on Maria as soon as she appeared and it froze her right where she stood. “Right.” She began hollowly. “Somebody told you all.” 

“Leliana.” Thom grunted. “Divine Victoria. Whatever we’re calling her now.” 

Thom’s eyes fastened on his over Maria’s shoulder, and Varric could feel the recrimination from where he stood. A silent accusation that Varric couldn’t save her or their child, that he hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t been clever or quick enough.

Varric knew. He didn’t need to be told.

“I know I’ve left you all in a bad place.” Maria’s words echoed awfully in the silent room, the glow of the Eluvian and the sick burn of the anchor the only light. “I… I just want you to know I’m proud of you. All of you.” 

“You should never have gone to Haven.” Bea whispered from behind her, pale and tired, defeated.

Maria didn’t look over her shoulder, but marched right to the Eluvian. She paused, one hand on the gold frame, nose close enough to touch the shining, swirling surface. “I don’t regret it, whatever happens.” She set her jaw, before looking over her shoulder and meeting his eyes. Not Bea’s, not Cassandra’s, not Dorian’s, his. “I wouldn’t trade our time together for a hundred years.” 

“I’d trade it.” Varric’s voice broke, staring into her shimmering eyes. Her beloved eyes, the ones he wrote poems, of varying quality, dedicated to.  “I’d trade every second to see you have a hundred more years.” 

Every second, every breath he was supposed to take, every scheduled heartbeat, every coin from his fortune, all worthless if she died here. 

He could have done without the searing agony that flitted across her face at his words, or the trembling of her hand as she held it out to him. “Come on, then.” 

He took her hand in his, squeezed it gently as she shook underneath him. She felt like fire under the leather of his gloves, burning heat and blood running in thin lines down her pale skin. “Together.” He stated firmly, bringing her knuckles to his lips. 

“Together.” She echoed, turning back to the mirror. 

 

The dragon roared up to the cracked and crumbling ceiling. The only good news, really, was that it seemed just as pissed off at the Qunari as it was with them. Still, Varric couldn’t think of a worse place to face a dragon than this room, small, circular, dangerously enclosed, with those damn spouts of fire keeping the beast trapped.

Which was why, when Maria suggested freeing the damn thing instead of trying to fight it and the Qunari, Varric agreed. So he went to one of the wheels, Cole to the other, and Sera to the third as Maria picked off their pursuers. Despite the fact that she could barely hold her bow steady, her shots never flew better. As if she’d been practicing for this every moment of every day since she’d first picked up an arrow. Hell, maybe she had been. He recalled all those torturous moments of her working through flaring pain from the anchor, two years of perseverance. All of that to land each shot as perfectly as if she’d been leisurely practicing at Skyhold. 

Bea jumped a barricade and another green fletched arrow soared past, igniting a Gatlock barrel, throwing qunari in every direction. Maria paused, silhouetted by the flames, her shadow thrown large on the stone behind her. Her eyes rose to the top of the stairs where Varric stood, steady and calm despite the chaos around  her. 

Varric clicked the last set of flames into place, leaving a free exit to the gate. The gate where Rainier was supposed to pull the lever and let the biggest threat to their lives escape. However, Rainier himself seemed to have gotten caught by two Qunari, engaged in a pitted struggle against them. 

Maria assessed the situation as quickly as he did, but he couldn’t fight his way down quickly enough. She made a run for it instead. Her anchor sputtered, bolts of green light scattering Qunari, lancing towards the dragon. It spewed poison in Maria’s general direction in revenge. Bull yelled, drawing the beast’s attention back to him long enough for Maria to jump, to grab the gate’s lever with her whole body weight and yank down, hard. 

The gate rose, creaking, and Maria fell to the ground, breathless. A qunari’s sword crashed perilously near where her head lay and she rolled just in time, bow and arrow ready, piercing into the man’s chest at close range. Unfortunately, the maneuvering put her squarely in the path of the dragon, the dragon that heard the gate slide open, who turned as if in disbelief. 

Maria stood alone, silhouetted against the dark night sky, the only thing between the dragon and his freedom. Yet, Ataashi didn’t move, instead he stared down Maria. 

And Maria, bent over double from a combination of pain and effort, her mark sputtering, bow clenched so tightly in her other fist he’d swear it would break, looked up at the dragon. Their eyes met and the dragon shifted it’s head down, inching close to her. 

Close enough to swallow her in one snap of its jaws. Varric couldn’t decide whether screaming would startle it into action, or make it change targets. 

Maria didn’t flinch. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and straightened as much as she could. Varric watched as his woman, a goddess of destruction, herald of suffering, stepped toward the dragon.

“Go on then!” She yelled, tossing her bow aside. He felt it clatter inside his soul somewhere, shaking everything lose. “Get! Get the fuck out of here, go!” 

She gestured, violently, over her shoulder towards the night sky. The creature lifted one massive leg, slammed it down as it approached. 

“Someone help the Inquisitor!” Dorian shouted, and yet Maria didn’t move. She stood her ground. Varric swore, send another bolt into the nearest Qunari. 

“Go!” She ordered, as if she could order dragons as easily as she could order men. The dragon raised its head up toward the ceiling, released a mighty screech that echoed off the walls, caused more rubble to fall from the ceiling. 

Even from where he stood, torn between fear and shock, Varric could see Maria shaking. He knew it wasn’t fear, there wasn’t an ounce of fear even left in her. The dragon swung it’s massive head back down, swept it from side to side, spewing more poison at the Qunari attempting to flank it. The rest of them fell as the dragon opened it’s mighty wings and stumbled forward, over Maria, before storming into the night with a roar. Maria whipped her head around to stare after it, a shocked kind of amazement painting her features with more life than he’d seen since he’d had her that last, terrible time. 

She could die now, a traitorous part of his heart whispered. Maria could die now, as heroes were meant to die. She would die great, die victorious. She would lunge into the abyss, roaring as mightily as the dragon who’d recognized a kindred spirit in her, somehow.

She could die, and he could write this one last story to immortalize her as she deserved. Then he’d lay down his quill the same way she threw down her bow, and he’d go off to find her in the afterlife.  

Ataashi meant the glorious ones in Qunlat, that’s what Bull said. If that was true, the dragon had been right when it sailed past her in respect. She was as glorious as it was. 

 

“I’m sorry, did she say Solas?” Dorian asked, panting, leaning on his staff as they stared down the Eluvian the Viddasala went through. “Solas who hates the Dalish, working for Fen’Harel?” 

“Solas  _ gave _ Corypheus the orb?” Cassandra repeated aghast. “If it were true…” 

“Solas wouldn’t.” Maria leaned against the bridge’s stone wall. Her voice was certain. “The Viddasala is wrong. Whatever Solas is doing now, he wouldn’t risk the world.” 

“He laughs because the books I’m carrying tower over my head, can hear him putting his paint down. Smiles, warm. Patient. Never tired of my questions.” Cole whispered. “But so sad. Always so sad.” 

“Would he push a dying Qunari into the winter palace?” Vivienne asked, arching one eyebrow. “To lure you here to help him?” 

“He wouldn’t need to lure me anywhere.” Maria choked on a pained gasp as the mark burst to life again. “I’d have helped him if he asked. He knows that.” 

“Unless he’s tryin’ to destroy the world with elfy shite magic.” Sera wrinkled her nose. 

Dorian had Maria’s hand in his, his eyes full of tears as he examined it. He slowly, gently, let it fall against her leg. “I’m sorry, my friend. I… I don’t know what to do any longer.” 

Maria took a deep breath, exhaled. Her eyes pointedly didn’t meet his or Dorian’s as she looked at the Eluvian. “I’ll chase down the Viddasala. The rest of you should go back. Whatever happens, Dragon’s Breath is over. The Exalted Council is safe.” 

“You cannot go on by yourself.” Dorian’s voice shook as he knelt in front of her. “The Viddasala may be wrong about Solas, but she isn’t wrong about you. Your time is short, Maria.” 

“No.” The word formed in Varric’s mouth immediately as he stared at Maria. “No, it isn’t.” 

“Cass…” Maria still didn’t look at him, turning her attention to the Seeker, but Cassandra was looking at him, her hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword, and Varric knew Cassandra had the same thought he did. 

“There is no guarantee he will be able to stop it again.” Cassandra began slowly.

No guarantee, but a chance. Varric felt something spark back to life inside him, a tentative flare of hope in the darkness. A chance, all he fucking wanted was a chance. He’d play the cards he was dealt if there was even a remote possibility of success. 

“What is it?” Bea asked, looking away from her sister to Varric and the Seeker. 

“Solas stopped her mark from killing her, at the beginning.” Cassandra stated evenly. “It was a close thing, if he had not tried, she may have died before she woke and stabilized the breach. If he could do so again…” 

“No.” Maria interrupted, her voice cutting through Cassandra’s like a sword. “We’re not doing this. You’re all turning around and going back to Halamshiral.” 

“It is worth the attempt. Perhaps Solas has learned some new tricks in the time he’s been away. Even if it could be stabilized for just a bit longer…” Dorian’s face was lighting up too. 

“No!” 

Maria ripped herself away from Dorian, from Bea, and stood glaring at Varric. “No.” She repeated softly, dangerously.

Why? He wanted to scream, to shake her. It was as if, knowing the abyss was approaching, she’d decided to hurl herself into it at full speed. Meanwhile, all he wanted to do was hold her back. As long as possible, forever if he could. She twisted, beginning to storm towards the mirror the Viddasala had went through, but stumbled after only two steps. He grabbed her before she could hit the stone, tugging her to face him. She caught herself against his chest, gray eyes flicking up to his. Dark, so damned dark in her grief, her pain, her anger. 

Maybe the abyss existed inside her. Maybe it always had. “It’s like you can’t wait to die.” He accused, voice hard. Like she couldn’t wait to leave him.  

“I  _ hurt _ , Varric.” Her voice shook, quiet enough for only him. “I can hardly think past it. I can hardly breathe. I can’t… I can’t.” Her lips trembled. “I’m dying, just let me die. Let me die as quickly as I can.” 

“I can’t live without you.” He admitted. “You promised. Damnit Maria, you promised.” 

“I lied.” Her lips barely moved while she pulled away. “Like you asked me to.” 

This wasn’t heartbreak. This was destruction, scorched earth, and she it’s cause. “I love you.” 

“I loved you too.” Her eyes, dark and furious, looked up at his. “But I’m dead now, Varric, and you’re not.” 

“You’re not dead yet.” He hissed, tightening his fist in the back of her leathers. “Not yet. Let us save you.”

“I killed our baby, I don’t  _ want _ you to save me.” She exploded, and finally, finally, the tears rolled down her cheeks. “I don’t want to live like this, Varric. Just let me go, please, please just let me go.” 

“I can’t.” He repeated softly. 

She broke in his arms, burying her face against his chest and sobbing. She shuddered and he didn’t know, didn’t know if the tears were the pain of losing their child, or the anchor eating through her skin. Varric pressed one hand against the back of her neck, splayed his fingers through the sweat slicked hair stuck to her clammy skin, anchored her to him with his lips at her temple. 

“The baby isn’t your fault.” He whispered roughly against her soft skin. “I don’t give a damn if we ever have a kid, if I get to keep you, that’s enough. That’s enough, I swear.” 

She shuddered harder in his arms and Varric met Bea’s eyes over her shoulder. “You in?” He asked. 

She nodded, mutely. She didn’t need any words, after all. This was the young girl, all grown up, who’d dived head first into Hercinia on it’s blackest day to pull her sister out. Someone forged in that fire didn’t become the kind of woman who shrunk from danger. 

“Cassandra…” Maria muttered, pulling away from him as much as she could lifting her face to stare over his shoulder towards the Seeker. “Cassandra, you promised.” 

Varric didn’t need to wait long before the Seeker sailed past him. “I told you I was not ready to give up faith yet.” The Seeker’s wore a face like thunder. “I will leave you, if I need to, but not a moment before.” 

And thus, the mutiny was complete. If the Seeker rejected Maria’s orders, everyone else would too. Already, he saw them picking up their weapons, readying themselves for the final stretch. This, he thought fondly, was the team Maria ordered into the worst places on Thedas. Swamps full of undead, haunted forests, sandy pits filled with blood magic and demons, anything she fancied waltzing into. 

But the one order that caused them to rebel, uniformly and without ceremony, was the order to leave her to die. 

“Can you shoot?” He asked, letting his hand smooth its way down her tearstained face. 

She nodded, dully and in defeat. Varric grabbed her bow, pressed it firmly into her hands. 

“Stay with me.” He ordered, taking her marked hand in his own gently, ignoring the burn against his own palm. “Stay with me, alright? Together.” 

“Together.” She repeated softly, shutting her eyes. Then they followed the others through the Eluvian. 


	19. The Dread Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you been lying to me? From the beginning?” The second question, the most important one. Well, second most important. 
> 
> The most important one was probably “Are you planning to destroy the world?” She’d get to that one later. 
> 
> Maria finds Solas.

She’d had this nightmare before, or one just like it at any rate. She crashed through an endless array of mirrors while fire crawled up her skin, while she burned from the inside out. She wondered if she’d always known where her pyre would be, as if she’d been destined to become the weapon she’d been forged into and then to finally shatter in this ancient, broken place. 

“I can’t, Varric, I can’t.” She pleaded, through what felt like cotton in her mouth. She thought she was going to be sick, her empty stomach protesting violently, and still he dragged her on. He turned as merciless as Cullen with his damn recruits. She screamed as the pressure built, undeniable, a tidal wave she had to ride. A wave that needed to shatter. She pulled free of his bruising grip and felt the power knock her off her feet, throw her into the old grass of this damned place. 

“It’s alright.” Varric soothed, pulling her back up as gently as he could. It didn’t matter, his touch was a hot brand against her skin. She whimpered. 

“You’re almost there.” Zarra whispered from her side. “It’s only a little farther, Maria. My brave Maria.” 

No farther. She couldn’t, she couldn’t do it. Still, Varric pulled her back up, fearlessly clutching the arm that was an inferno, glowing so brightly it hurt to look at, the blood running down it leaving a bright trail behind them as they pushed through all the qunari in their way. 

“Are you ready?” Fynn asked, mouth set in a grim line of determination. 

She was ready to stop. To just stop. But she couldn’t, because Varric passed her arm to Beatrix and Bea slipped around the qunari mage, tugging her behind like a sack of potatoes and sitting her close to the mirror, the one the Viddasala ran through. 

Bea with her knives, Bea who could slit a throat ear to ear with a flick of her wrists. “She won’t do it.” Zarra hissed. “Don’t you dare ask it of her.” 

“Shut up.” Maria snapped. “Just shut up.” 

“Listen, listen.” Just like that, Bea’s hands were on both sides of her face. She couldn’t see past her burning gray eyes, but she heard shouts of battle, the crash of weapons. “If it’s Nanna or if it’s Fynn, I don’t care. Tell them they can’t fucking have you, that you’re still ours.” 

Her sister’s fingers dug deep into her skin, sent bolts of pain through her head. There were tears choking in Beatrix’s voice, swirling beneath the surface. 

“If anyone could save you.” Zarra’s eyes fixed longingly on Bea’s face. “It would be them, wouldn’t it?” 

Nobody could save her and she didn’t want to be saved, not anymore. She wanted to beg them to let her die, let her die alone in the crossroads, alone with her misery, her despair, her guilt, and her failure. 

“Stay here.” Bea ordered, tucking Maria next to a boulder and turning to the mage, the one that they’d already sent packing once. Unfortunately, the creature seemed to have drawn down all of its power and returned with a vengeance. 

Not a creature, a part of her whispered. A person, one who had hopes and dreams before they made him or her into a beast, before they sewed their mouths shut, before they locked them in those damn collars. 

Maria knew what people became when they were hurt, cornered, and desperate. She reached a trembling hand back to the quiver slung over her back, pulled one of her arrows free. Her vision blurred with each uneven beat of her heart and she couldn’t take the shot, couldn’t be sure she was aiming at the right qunari, if she wasn’t about to put an arrow through Bull instead. 

Bull, forced to fight his own people for her. Another failure, another damned failure.

She didn’t have time to examine that thought before another wave of pain crashed over her, the mark pulsing with raw power. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. The force slammed out through her, choked her agonized moan, hit every fighter in the field including her own damn people. She saw Cassandra land, heavy, on her side before struggling to get up  with her shield twisting her arm, the edge of it stuck in the ground. 

Damnit, this was exactly what she didn’t want to happen.

She swept her eyes over the other combatants, all of whom were regaining their feet, but the Qunari mage was up first, howling in rage and blood lust, stomping towards… 

Her heart caught in her throat and her sight sharpened enough to watch as the mage’s hand reached out, pulled a heartbreakingly familiar leather duster off the ground and into the air. Bianca clattered to the ground, a sound that was too loud, too damn loud. 

And then she could hear nothing past the roaring of her own blood, a drumbeat pulsing in her hand. Everything swirled, and she wasn’t in the clearing with the mirror at her back. 

 

_ “Listen, I didn’t get a chance to tell you.”  _

_ “Varric… time is short.” Leliana cut in. “Make it quick.”  _

_ She was covered in more gore and demon guts than she cared to think about, including some that unluckily landed in her hair. Everything had been a fucking nightmare since she’d landed in Redcliffe’s dungeon. Cullen’s blood dried on the knife she wore on her right side, the woman who barely resembled Leliana said the world was at the mercy of some would be god, and Varric… _

_ Damnit, she hadn’t been prepared to see Varric. Not like this.   _

_ He’d been right behind her in the throne room at Redcliffe, a reassuring and comforting presence. A shadow on her flank, ready with a joke to lighten the tension. Now, she faced the man staring at her with red hued eyes, his voice eerie, carrying within it an echo of another voice. Something much darker.  _

_ But it was him, she knew it was. She’d know him in the dark, know him with her sight gone and her ears deafened. The way he was looking at her though, that was unlike any expression she’d seen on his face. Had it been lurking there, hiding behind the genteel and good natured facade? This… this was raw, dangerous passion.  _

_ Mixed with something unspeakably tender. And he’d been looking at her like this since she’d picked the lock to his cell and embraced him without thought, without good reason. She hadn’t embraced the others, had managed to control herself for that, but Varric…  _

_ “Shit…” He mumbled, shaking his head. “Hard to think straight when you’re looking at a man like that, Princess.”  _

_ “Should I close my eyes?” She joked weakly. “I will, but only if you close yours. I could do without you immortalizing whatever demon guts are in my hair.”  _

_ He laughed and it nearly sounded normal. “Maker, I can’t believe… a whole year I spent thinking I’d missed my chance, that you’d died in a blaze right in front of me and I couldn’t save you. Now here you are.”  _

_ “Did you spend the whole year thinking up all these lines? Just in case I showed back up?” She couldn’t take him seriously, if she took him seriously, if she believed he wasn’t just teasing her… _

_ “Bianca and I… we were done. Long before you fell out of the sky, beautiful. I should have told you, that night before Redcliffe, but I didn’t. I wanted to tell you… damn, it just seemed like a bad time.” He reached out, took her gloved hand and brought it gently up to his lips. “So, if you get back and I don’t tell you, kick my ass, okay?”  _

_ She could feel his lips through the leather, warm and gentle. Something was melting, something inside her she didn’t realize had been frozen solid for such a long, long time. His eyes were as warm as his lips when he pulled away, letting go of her hand. “Good luck, Princess.”  _

_ “Varric, wait.” She protested as he went to turn away from her. She couldn’t let him go with that, didn’t understand why he would tell her, why he would… _

_ Her touch on his shoulder snapped whatever restraint Varric had been showing, the restraint she wasn’t even aware he’d been practicing. He turned to her like a man starving, spinning so quickly it made her dizzy, then he was on her. His mouth demanding, conquering her own. She opened in surprise and he invaded, pulling her roughly against him, threading his fingers through her hair. _

_ He kissed her like they were dying, like he’d spent the past year dreaming of all the ways he could have kissed her. He kissed her until her knees were jelly and she couldn’t breathe, until all she could think was his name repeated over and over again. _

_ “Dwarf!” Blackwall barked. This broke the spell, made him pull away from her.  _

_ “Varric.” She whispered as he traced his thumb over her cheekbone. Then he brushed one, almost chaste, kiss against her other cheek.  _

_ “Sorry, Princess.” His voice, low as it was, seemed to echo across the room. “I could have loved you, you know. I’d have been damned good at it.”  _

_ She didn’t know what to say, could hardly catch her breath. But he was already unslinging Bianca from over his shoulder, following Blackwall out the doors. Leliana took point, her arrows ready, and Maria pulled her own.  _

_ “I’m busy manipulating the delicate forces of nature right now.” Dorian drawled. “But please tell me I get to hear the story about that at our earliest convenience. I’d give several sovereigns to be kissed half that well.”  _

_ “I’d like to hear the story behind it as well, to be honest.” She couldn’t help the husky, raspy quality of her voice. She coughed once, apologetically, into her sleeve. _

_ “Less talking, more magic.” Leliana snapped.  _

_ She heard a roar that shook the very building and Leliana raised her bow. She began to pray.  _

_ But no prayers helped Varric. The door burst open, and it was the only thing she could see. A familiar, beloved leather duster. It was covered in blood, and the body within it was limp, eyes rolling, unseeing.  _

_ She screamed, stepping forward. She didn’t hear whatever Dorian yelled, couldn’t over the blood roaring in her ears as his arm caught her waist, as the Venatori slit Leliana’s throat. All she could see was Varric’s body, crumbled on the ground. Still, unmoving, and unlaughing. Too late, she’d been too late.  _

 

The Qunari mage had a fistful of flames in the hand that wasn’t lifting Varric into the air, and that was what jolted her out of her shock. The thought that Varric  _ couldn’t _ die the same way Hawke killed the Arishok, he couldn’t die with a mouthful of fire like Fynn did.

He couldn’t die because of her. 

Maria’s heart slowed, her vision cleared, and the bow felt right in her hand again. One last time. 

She raised it, drew it back, and aimed. The arrow sank into the mage’s throat and he bellowed, throwing Varric hard back onto the ground. The mage turned to her, the fire searing towards her instead. She raised her bow, on instinct more than anything else. Perhaps, the anchor also acted on instinct, throwing out another blast of energy that nearly knocked Maria back through the mirror, would have if she didn’t grip the edge of it. Her bow, the one Dagna and Harritt made, fell to the ground in two broken pieces. She saw that it cracked right through the Inquisition’s flaming eyeball. 

But the Qunari fell too, crumbling like a paper ball, falling opposite of Varric. That was worth the searing pain climbing up her arm, the uneven beating of her heart, the broken bow and all the broken dreams at her feet. Her people were getting back up, Cassandra and Cole running to Varric’s side, and he stirred. 

Not lifeless. Not yet. 

The first thing Varric did was look for her, amber eyes pinned her to the mirror. She had one arm almost the whole way through and nobody was looking at her, all concerned for Varric, for their own injuries. Varric’s eyes, warm and soft, were the only ones she needed to escape. Sera nursed a shoulder that was almost certainly dislocated, Dorian pressed an open hand against a bleeding wound. Bull leaned down to pull Bea from the ground and Vivienne had her staff out as she looked around them for additional enemies. Thom was still on the ground, but stirring feebly too.  

“Don’t follow me.” She whispered. She knew he couldn’t hear the words, her voice was too weak to carry them. But she knew he recognized the shape of them on her lips. He tried to push himself up, nearly toppling Cassandra over. 

“Are you ready, child?” Zarra Cadash asked beside her. Maria took one more uneven breath, a last heartbeat to look at the man she loved. He yelled her name, drew everyone’s attention to her. This was it, her last chance to save them. To save them all. 

“Yes.” Maria whispered, twisting into the Eluvian. The surface rippled, and she stepped the whole way through.

 

Her plan had been to push the mirror over, shatter it. Something, anything. It didn’t fucking matter, as long as they couldn’t follow her through. She turned as soon as she went through, reaching for the frame to push when the surface stilled and went flat behind her, reflecting only her startled and pained expression back to her. 

Testing, she pressed the palm of her hand against it. Nothing. She could have laughed in relief, sagging against it, palm against cool and empty glass. This happened before, in Skyhold, when she chased Morrigan’s boy through. The mirror slammed shut, locking Varric out. She’d been concerned then, but this time… 

This time, she felt as if finally someone, somewhere, had listened to her. 

She pressed her unmarked palm against her unevenly thudding heart and turned, nearly running into a statue of a Qunari.

Or… a Qunari turned to stone, which was more unsettling and problematic. Maria winced, biting her lip against a whimper as she stepped forward, looking into the warrior’s fierce face. There was a story, somewhere, of a monster that could turn men to stone. She used to discount myths like those as children’s tales, but… shit, her whole life was weird. 

She heard shouting, took another step forward to follow it. 

“Cadash!” 

She couldn’t  _ possibly _ be hallucinating Dorian yelling for her. She staggered to a stop, gripping onto the stone bicep of a Qunari and waiting, listening. 

“Venhedis! Maria Cadash, you answer me  _ right now  _ you mad, impossible…” 

She reached into her pocket, pulled out the yellow stone. It vibrated as Dorian descended into a torrent of what she could only assume were some of the best Tevene curses he could conjure. She blinked once, twice. Then she lifted it to her shaking lips.

“Sorry. I know this was expensive, I should have returned it.” 

The swearing cut off in a second, then Dorian’s voice broke. “Whatever you did to close that mirror, undo it. Immediately.” 

“I didn’t…” She choked on a pained gasp, the world going wobbly again. She nearly dropped the stone, so she tightened her fingers around it securely. “I didn’t do it.” 

If there was a Maker, he did it. It was Andraste’s last favor for her dying Herald. 

“Then stay there until we figure this out.” Dorian pleaded. “Don’t… don’t do anything rash. Keep talking to us.” 

No, she wouldn’t be doing that. Everytime she tried to tell them goodbye, they somehow… 

“Maria?” 

She paused in the motion of putting the stone back into her pocket, Varric’s voice cutting through her like a blade. “Maria, can you hear me?”

She was tempted to not answer, but it seemed cowardly. Wasn’t that what Bianca did, just refused to answer his letters? Varric deserved better than that. 

“I told you to let me go.” She whispered into the stone, taking another step under the frozen qunari. Yes, definitely shouting up ahead. If she was lucky, she could sneak up on the Viddasala and let the anchor take her out. Then… 

Well, slitting her own throat wouldn’t be as clean as letting Bea do it, but it’d be over regardless. 

“I told you I couldn’t. Not like this.” Varric’s voice, broken shards of glass wrapped in velvet. “I love you.” 

He couldn’t watch her die. Now he wouldn’t have to. 

“Take care of Bea.” She stumbled and nearly fell. Black spots swirled around her vision and she cried out as quietly as she could. 

“Maria!” Varric yelled. 

“Take care of each other.” Maria continued through gritted teeth. “I love you. I could have loved you forever, I’d have been damned good at it.” 

She turned the corner, looked up a set of stairs. Through blurred vision, she could tell there were two figures moving at the top. She lurched forward and the stone crackled in her hand. 

“Please, just come back.” Varric begged. “That’s all I’ve ever asked for, that you come back. Just one more time, Princess. One more miracle.” 

No more miracles. No more pain. No more sleepless nights, no more failure. 

No more wondering what could have been. No more waiting for someone else she loved to take a blade for her. 

“Goodbye, love.” Maria lowered the stone from her lips, dropped it into her pocket. She closed her eyes, fought a wave of pain to step forward one more time. The figures at the top had moved, and then…

One turned to stone and the other looked down at her before turning to the swirling Eluvian in front of him. But she knew that silhouette, she knew it as well as she knew her own. 

“Solas.” She called, her voice a rasp. And yes, he turned towards her, flickering in and out of her spotty vision. The pain came in another sudden wave, so hard it knocked her to the ground and she collapsed onto her knees, breathless, clammy. From the corner of her eye, she could see blood, blood spiraling down her hand like a river running through her bare fingers. She tried not to cry out, but she didn’t succeed. 

Then it stopped. It just… stopped. The searing agony melting away into… well, not quite ‘no pain’ but… pain that allowed her to function. That allowed her to look up at the elf standing over her. He slowly stretched his hand out, fingers curling gently. As if she’d simply fallen while sparring with Bull and he was helping her stand. 

“We should have a bit of time.” He began mildly as Maria took his hand, using it to lift herself from the ground, to stagger upright. “I suspect you have questions.” 

A million, each one more important than the last, but she couldn’t help the one she blurted out. 

“You  _ ass _ .” She began, with no small measure of fondness. And an edge of fear she couldn’t quite repress. “Please tell me this turning people to stone trick is new and you didn’t let me face down a would-be god with my bow and my stunning good looks.”  

He chuckled, a small and light sound, one that lasted only for a short second, then he was staring at her with an expression of unfathomable sadness. “I have missed you, Inquisitor Cadash. More than perhaps I should have.” 

“Have you been lying to me? From the beginning?” The second question, the most important one. Well, second most important. 

The most important one was probably “Are you planning to destroy the world?” She’d get to that one later. 

“Yes.” He admitted. “I can control the anchor, to a degree. I am stronger now than I was when I stopped it from killing you at Haven. It is… a mark bestowed by the orb of Fen’Harel. My orb.” 

“Maybe you should start at the beginning, Solas.” Maria swallowed, hard, against the rising dread.

“Yes.” He agreed, nodding and closing his eyes. “I owe you that, at least.” 

 

She listened. She always listened to Solas. She used to love listening to his stories, the things he saw in the fade. The things he’d observed in his travels. 

She should never have listened to Solas. She should never, ever have listened to Solas. Her friend. Her greatest enemy. The one she’d nurtured in her bosom like a poisonous snake. 

“Stop this.” She took a step forward, holding her hand out to Solas in appeasement. “This is… this is madness. If you think people will die… if you think lots of people will die… You can’t, Solas please…” 

He shut his eyes. Maria pressed forward. “Solas, you helped me save this world. You can’t… you can’t possibly think that killing everyone is the best idea. Come back to Halamshiral, come back and… I don’t know. The Inquisition will help you build a better world for the elves here, I promise.” 

“It is not enough.” He whispered. “I am sorry, my friend. It isn’t enough.” 

“Solas, please. Don’t make me fight you.” She couldn’t hold back the tears that dripped down her cheeks. “Solas, I’ve lost everything. Please don’t make me fight you too.” 

“You’re dying.” Solas frowned, bringing his eyes up to hers. “I’ve killed you, and I’ve killed the child you carried.” 

No, she had killed it. She killed her child and doomed Thedas. 

“How did you know?” She asked miserably. 

“Lottie is one of my people. She has been since the very beginning. I asked her to keep an eye on you, she informed me.” He reached out, placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “I am so sorry. For this, more than anything else. I have… I have caused you such pain. You, a soul so kind and clever, to suffer at my hands… it is a sin I will carry.” 

“If I’d have had a child, she’d have burned anyway.” The words were ashes in her mouth. “Like me, like Varric, like all our friends.” 

“If anyone could survive in our new world, it is you.” Solas sounded so sure, so absolutely sure. So absolutely sure of every single damn word coming out of his mouth. 

“I would have had you happy, Maria. If only for awhile, you have earned it.” 

“Don’t call me that.” She couldn’t bear her name in his mouth, the way it sounded like a cherished old friend’s name. “Don’t.” 

“The anchor  _ is _ killing you. You know this, of course. You’ve known it all along. Drawing you here gives me the chance to save you. For now, at least.” Solas knelt down. The pain in the anchor was growing worse again, snapping against her skin. 

“If you save me, you’ll never rest.” She threatened, the blood dripping from her arm to the stone at her feet. “You can’t save me, I won’t live in a world waiting for the executioner’s axe. I won’t…” She bit back a cry of pain, the anchor lighting up in her burning fingertips. 

“It is futile, Maria.” Solas argued impassionately. 

“You raised up a herald to fight a god!” She screamed, the light from the anchor sparking in her fingers. “What makes you think, for one  _ moment _ , that I won’t do the same to you?” 

“You have no Inquisition. No army. Not even your bow.” Solas furrowed his brow. “My friend, you barely have the life you cling to.” 

He was correct. Correct on all accounts. But she did have one thing. She had Fynn’s dagger on her left side instead of the right, where Solas would expect it to hang. Luckily, her left side still seemed to be in somewhat working order, and if she was quick enough and lucky enough…

Her luck had always run shitty, but she had to try. 

“You have the exact same things you had when you fell from the breach.” Zarra Cadash encouraged, sauntering behind Solas’s back. “The same things you possessed in the tunnels under Ostwick.” 

“I see you, Maria Cadash.” Fynn whispered against her left ear. “I see you, but he doesn’t. He only sees what he wants to see.” 

If she was dying, she’d do it saving the world. One last time. 

She went for the blade, drew it in one smooth movement. A quick twist of her left wrist and it was sliding home, angled for the pale line of Solas’s unguarded throat. 

His eyes flashed and the dagger froze in thin air. He reached for it, plucking it from her frozen hand and lowering it, staring down into the reflection with heavy sadness. Maria’s hand fell, free, back to the ground. 

“Do it then.” She challenged, lifting her chin. “I won’t bow to a king with a throne made of bones, so do it. But you look in my damn eyes, Solas. You look in my eyes when you murder me.” 

He frowned, shook his head. “I am sorry.” He whispered, reaching for the anchor bearing hand. The other pressed the knife to her throat. Maria felt the sharp edge rest lightly against her skin and stared into Solas’s pale eyes. 

“Chuckles.” Varric shouted from within her pocket, the stone shaking in her coat. “Solas! Don’t. Don’t, whatever the cost. I’ll pay it. I’ll pay it twice over, but save her. Save her.” 

Maria shook her head immediately, but Solas’s eyes softened and he dropped the knife onto the stones. “Give me your hand.” He ordered. 

“No.” She refused, left hand scrambling for the fallen dagger again, but he grabbed it anyway roughly, pulling her to her feet. “Stop!” She screamed as he pulled her arm straight, the burning light searing her eyes, blood streaking down glowing green skin. Agony followed his touch, enough to make her legs weak, to send her vision spinning again. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered again, clenching his other fist. “I’m so sorry, my friend.” 

Something snapped, a gust of power she had no time for. Darkness was coming closer, nipping at her heels, but Maria kept her eyes fixed on Solas’s even as she felt herself start to collapse.

Let the last thing the dread wolf saw of her be the eyes she was famous for, let them haunt him like all the eyes of all the people she couldn’t save. 


	20. The Hanged Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria won't wake up. 
> 
> Leliana finally finds out what Beatrix Cadash has been up to for two years.

They heard every word. Every. Single. Word. The speaking stone broadcast Solas’s confession to all of them as they huddled, lost and abandoned in front of the last Eluvian. Varric held the stone that carried the very last whispers of Maria’s voice, listened in growing horror as Solas spoke of how the world would burn. 

Bad, but not the worst part. The very worst part was listening to Maria beg, not for her life, never for her own life. She begged for theirs, for the world. She pleaded, reasoned, cajoled. Varric heard her tears through choked gasps of pain, through bitten off whimpers. 

Nothing she said would persuade the Dread Wolf, but Solas wanted to save her anyway. 

And fucking Maria Cadash told him no. Threatened him, threatened him as she burned away with his magic eating her alive. He’d laugh at the gall of it, a desperate bluff if he ever heard one. Except…

Varric didn’t think it was a bluff. Not really. If anyone could suppress death out of righteous fury, it may very well be Maria Cadash.

“You have no Inquisition, no army. Not even your bow!” Solas raged indignantly. Varric could almost picture the crease of his brow as he lectured. “My friend, you barely have the life you cling to!” 

“Open up this mirror and see what she has.” Cassandra burst out passionately, turning from the shining yellow stone to the mirror, banging a gauntleted fist off the gilt edge. “Damn you to the void, Solas!” 

Something crackled, interference of some kind in the stone. Varric shifted it in his palm, trying to calm the eerie static emanating from it. He heard something like a high pitched whistle, then a voice he didn’t recognize, low, rough. 

“I see you Maria Cadash.” 

The rest of the sentence was drowned out by Beatrix’s shocked yelp, her hand lifting to her lips as if she’d burned her fingers, eyes as wide as saucers as she stared down at Varric’s hand. 

“Who was that?” Dorian demanded, piercing Bea with his gaze. “Beatrix!” He shouted as Bea ignored him, focusing on the sparkling stone that resonated in Varric’s hand. 

He wished he was surprised by the sound of a scuffle, but he wasn’t. 

All he could hear was the sound of Maria’s panting, heavy breaths. Her voice was laced with bitterness when she spoke again. “Do it, then.” 

Varric’s blood ran cold, he lost track of the words again. Didn’t pick them up again past the fluttering panic in his ears until he heard Solas speak again. “I’m sorry.” 

Beatrix made a small choked sound in her throat, turning blindly toward the mirror where Cassandra stood, as if somehow it would open. It would open and they’d rush through, and…

“Chuckles!” Maker help him, he’d been calling Fen’Harel chuckles. Daisy was going to lose her damn mind.

“Solas.” He corrected, his mouth working faster than his mind. “Don’t.” 

He wasn’t above begging, not for Maria. “Don’t. Whatever the cost, I’ll pay it. I’ll pay it twice over, but save her.” 

It’d be a bargain, whatever the price. “Save her.” He pleaded once more, his voice breaking, a tear falling onto the speaking stone. 

Something fell. He heard it thud through the stone, then Solas’s voice again. “Give me your hand.” 

“No.” Maria’s voice trembled, a mixture of pain and fear. Stubborn to the very blasted end. Something happened, she screamed, a long agonized wail that made Sera hide her face behind her hands, that made all the hair on Varric’s neck stand up. She was begging him to stop, stop whatever he was doing. 

He was listening to her die, helpless to stop it. He’d never felt so damn powerless in his life. 

Then it was hauntingly silent, the stone continuing to shimmer in his hand, but the sound gone quiet. “Maria.” He called, fingers tightening over the polished surface. “Baby, don’t do this to us. Don’t do this to me.” 

He’d never see her again. He’d never hold her again.

“Maria!” The name came more desperately now, launched into the telling silence like a grenade. 

He owed her a small fortune from Wicked Grace, she’d never tease him about it again. 

From the corner of his eye he saw Bea sway, then sink. Cassandra didn’t quite catch her in time, both women ended up collapsing to the ground, clutching each other like people cast adrift. 

He’d never wake up to the sun streaming through her red hair. He’d never pull her close while they danced. 

Dorian turned away, mute, tears running down his cheeks, into his mustache. He covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a silent scream. 

Maria Cadash would never traipse around the Viscount’s Keep driving Aveline batty. Not ever again. 

“Damnit!” Rainier ripped his helm off, threw it as hard as he could into the rubble. “Blighted… damn him. Damn him!” 

He’d never hear her laugh at one of his jokes. Never taste her skin in the moonlight. 

Bull slammed his greatsword into the earth, leaned his head on the pommel. Vivienne gently touched his shoulder, shaking her head. 

Skyhold would never come to life in a whirl of color as she returned. Never again. 

“He couldn’t do it.” Cole muttered. “He couldn’t. Her eyes. Gray, grinning, gleaming. Great.”

Varric swallowed, hard, looking up at the kid. “She is too great to destroy, too good. He can’t do it, can’t extinguish them. Weakness, but she’s his friend. His only friend. Forgive him.” Cole raised one hand, pointed it at the Eluvian. 

As if it had been waiting for his signal, it burst to life, a riot of shifting shades, violent swirls of rainbow colors. The speaking stone was buzzing with that strange sound in his hands again as the mirror ignited.

“Are you coming or what?” A gruff voice demanded. 

The same voice that turned Beatrix Cadash as white as a ghost. And he knew who it belonged to. 

Fynn Dunhark couldn’t let her go either, but Varric couldn’t fault the man for that. Not when he’d just proved how abysmal he was at the same thing. 

The stone was out of his hand before anyone else could even turn to contemplate the mirror. And Varric was through it before Beatrix and Cassandra could even untangle themselves. 

 

This was the macabre horror scene Maria walked into, alone. A garden of frozen qunari, the ugliest statuary he’d ever seen. Worse, by far, than that shit Orlesians kept in their gardens. He ducked under stone weapons, under pained and terrified expressions frozen for eternity. 

It wasn’t hard to follow Maria’s trail. Her blood burned bright against the stone and grass, splashes of crimson that painted a haunting, terrible story of her last desperate march forward into the abyss. 

He screamed her name into the eerie silence, but nobody answered. All he could hear was Cole’s voice, the last burning shred of hope, repeated over and over. 

Solas couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look into those beautiful eyes and extinguish the life in them. 

He turned the last corner and stared up the steps for a beat. At the top, there were two short figures, a wide space between them. They shimmered in the eerie light, and as he watched they seemed to get fainter and fainter.

The male figure he didn’t know, but he knew the woman with her crisp white hair, her piercing gray eyes as she flecked away into the ash rising from the ground. Zarra Cadash raised one arched eyebrow towards him in challenge before she faded completely, the man lingering for only a second longer before he faded into the early dawn light as well. 

That left only one figure, one he almost missed, a crumpled woman laying on hard stone at the end of the blood trail. The ashes rose into the air around her, swirled upwards into the dawn. Her red hair shone in the sunlight like fire, spread into a halo around her body. 

He couldn’t take the steps fast enough, but somehow he still was the first one to collapse at her side. There was a slippery pool of blood under his knees, as if she’d been slowly bleeding out while she spoke to Solas. He reached for her pale face first, eyes closed, color still flush under her cheekbones. 

When he touched her, she was still warm. He thought he could see her chest rising, but he couldn’t trust tear blurred eyes. His fingers turned clumsy as he pushed her sweat soaked hair away from her neck, shaking as he touched them to her pulse. 

Steady. Thank the fucking Maker, thank Andraste. 

“Varric, is she…” Bea, frozen somewhere behind him. On top of the stairs, he guessed. He heard Cassandra push past her, her armor clanking noisily. 

“Alive.” The word itself was a prayer. “Alive. C’mon baby, you’re okay. Open your eyes for us, beautiful. Wake up. Please wake up.” 

Above him, Dorian hissed. He looked up, caught sight of the mage’s eyes fastened with horror on Maria’s arm. Varric followed his gaze, steeled himself for the sight. It was as bad as he thought it could be, hand blackened like a charred log, fingers stiff and curled tight as if she still clutched it against the power of the anchor. The skin cracked and peeled, floating like ash up into the air. Varric swore it was still giving off heat, as if it had indeed been burning her up at the very end. The blackness rose to just above her elbow, changing into pale, scarred skin, graceful curling white lines where the anchor had grown running up her skin, up over her shoulder. 

“We won’t be able to save it.” Vivienne pulled off her gloves, voice cool and level. “The arm is gone, there is nothing but ash here. We must act quickly in case the tissue continues to die.” 

Save it. For a minute, Varric didn’t even comprehend what she was talking about. He didn’t until she knelt down, her white armor dragging carelessly in Maria’s blood. He didn’t realize it until she touched Maria’s blackened fingers and he watched them dissolve under her careful probing. 

The clever, beautiful fingers that trailed all over him, that tangled in his chest hair when she straddled his hips, that clutched her bow so tightly, rose up into the air, dust in the sky. 

She’d been an archer, probably the best damn archer he’d seen. She wouldn’t be any longer. The last arrow she fired had been the one that saved his life. 

Slowly, tenderly, he brushed damp hair away from her brow and swallowed hard. Her breath warmed the back of his glove as he moved. Bea slid down beside him, her own trembling hand reaching out to touch her shoulder so gently it almost broke his heart. “Madame de Fer, she was…” 

“Divine Victoria mentioned.” Vivenne was trailing a thin line of white frost just above Maria’s elbow, where the black charred flesh had merged into her scarred pale skin. “I… I lack the skills to be certain myself. A healer, perhaps, but I am loathe to expose her to any but us in this state.” 

“What does it matter!” Sera exploded from behind Vivienne. “Who gives a… a shit! Quizzie… doesn’t matter ‘nuff what other people think.” 

Vivienne rounded on Sera with fury in her eyes. “I care not for what other people think, but I would not risk her becoming a victim to politics while she…” 

“It is impossible.” Dorian interrupted. “The baby… it could not have survived this. It would be foolish to hope.”

Varric closed his eyes against his own tears. “It doesn’t matter, I still have her. I don’t care.” He whispered. 

“She will.” Beatrix answered, bending low to press a kiss against her sister’s forehead. Varric opened his own eyes, met Dorian’s stricken gaze. The man looked on the verge of tears himself. He coughed to hide them, tearing his eyes away and up to Bull. 

“You will have to cut it off.” Dorian’s voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

“Let me clean the blade off first.” Bull growled in distaste. “I won’t touch her with their blood. Boss deserves better than that.” 

“He couldn’t do it. Because she deserved better.” Cole repeated. 

“Did you know?” Cassandra shouted, rounding on Cole. “Did you know what he planned? Did you not think…” 

“Seeker, stop.” Varric snapped as he gently twisted his fingers with Maria’s remaining hand. “Cole… always acted weird when we asked where Chuckles was. Solas did something to him.” 

“I didn’t know then. I remember now, but it’s too late. She’s hurt, she’s hurt and Solas hurt her, but he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, he loved her. She’s his friend, I don’t…” 

“He will pay.” Cassandra’s voice rumbled with anger, with violence. “I will see it myself, he will pay for this.” 

“I love you.” Varric brought Maria’s hand up to his forehead, closed his eyes as he held it there. “I love you, Princess. Only you, always you. You have to wake up, sweetheart. It’s over now, just wake up for me.” 

“Let her be asleep for this, Varric.” Bea whispered, her eyes fastened on Maria’s arm as Bull’s blade shadows the line of ice Vivienne had drawn before he drew back for a mighty swing.

Varric couldn’t watch, but he heard the sound of blade striking flesh, smelled the fresh blood. And everything he’d been holding onto, every ounce of strength and willpower, fled. 

Varric sobbed, the tears falling onto Maria’s battered body as the sun rose above them.

 

Somebody changed the sheets on the bed, removed the evidence of their last frantic and desperate joining. They’d been replaced with crisp white linens, folded down as if expecting the Inquisitor to slip into them immediately. A vase with the blue marguerites she loved sat on the nightstand next to a small stack of correspondence and a pitcher of cool water, condensation rolling down the glass in clear beads.

Lottie, Varric thought darkly. Everything arranged just the way Maria preferred, the way Lottie always knew just how to do. He thought she’d been loyal to Maria, loyal to a fault. He’d been wrong, wrong about her. Wrong about Solas. 

Still, warm water arrived somehow, and they managed to clean the blood from Maria’s skin. They moved carefully over the scarred skin, the stump that used to be her arm. There was no change, no movement beyond the flicking behind Maria’s eyes. A dream, perhaps. Or a nightmare.

“I… I have tried to contain the news of her injury.” Ruffles looked small, clutching her board to her chest in the middle of the room. Cullen sat in one of the chairs, his forehead in his hands. The rest remained where they’d been since they’d returned, with a small rotation to allow all to wash up .

All except Bea and Varric. They were both still wearing their bloodstained clothes, both immobile by the bed. 

“But, gossip has spread.” Vivienne guessed. “As it does. If it is known how grave her condition is, perhaps a healer should be risked…” 

“I do not think the severity is known, but…” Ruffles clutched her board tighter, jerked her chin roughly towards the balcony doors. “Perhaps it is easier to show you.” 

Varric didn’t move. Neither did Beatrix. Varric watched the woman slowly turn a gold disc over and over again in her hands. He couldn’t catch the design, but he guessed it was some kind of compact mirror. He watched her toss it into the air and catch it a few times, saw the flash of red like rubies. 

Dorian did move, drawn forth from his slumped posture in front of the unlit fireplace. He slunk across the room to the balcony, throwing the doors open briskly. 

Varric heard the swell of voices immediately. A great chorus rose above the gardens and he couldn’t quite make out the words, but he knew the song. It was the one they sang that night at Haven, the night Maria reappeared from the snow. The night she snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

“Perhaps you should see this, Varric.” Dorian called softly. “You may need to write about it someday.” 

He couldn’t  _ ever _ write about this. It would be like opening up his own veins and spilling his blood over the pages. This would join the precious few other stories he couldn’t tell. Wouldn’t tell. 

Cassandra straightened from where she leaned against the wall, joining Dorian. She stared out in silence for a few moments before calling back to Josephine. “How many?” 

“I don’t know.” Ruffles admitted. “Hundreds, I think.” 

Varric slowly rose from his perch beside Maria’s bed. Bea turned to watch over her shoulder as he joined Cassandra and Dorian in the door. 

“What is it?” She asked him quietly, holding the shining golden disc in her hand again. 

“People.” Maria’s people, he added internally. Not just the Inquisition, but every downtrodden soul she’d ever smiled on. Every servant she’d ever slipped a coin to. Every villager she saved from famine. “Half the countryside must be here. They’re singing and…” 

Lanterns were floating up into the air, decorated with Andraste’s eye. They rose leisurely into the dark sky, swirled ever upwards. Josephine was right, there were hundreds. 

“They write prayers inside them.” Cassandra stated quietly. “When the former Divine was ill, they did the same. Prayers to the Maker for…” 

For Maria Cadash. Hundreds of wishes floating into the sky.

Ignore that, he challenged the Maker. Turn your back on this, I dare you. 

 

Maria didn’t wake up. He ran out of prayers, and she didn’t wake up. The crowds at the palace gates swelled, night darkened, and she didn’t stir. One by one, her advisors left to try and run the Inquisition without her, but Maria didn’t open her eyes. 

Slowly, they all began to fall asleep. Finally, the only three still awake were Varric, Cole, and Bea, the rest of the team strewn over every inch of the Inquisitor’s rooms. 

The door opened and both of them ignored it, focused on the still woman between them. Perhaps, given recent events, one of them should have responded. If they looked up, they would have caught Leliana’s barely concealed rage, Cullen’s grim expression. Counting on Cole to alert them to the danger probably wasn’t the wisest idea.

As it was, neither of them were prepared when the Divine grabbed Beatrix by the back of her shirt and hauled her off her sister’s bed. “If you were not her sister, I would slice your throat clean through right here!” Leliana hissed as she slammed Bea up against the nearest wall. 

“As it is, some explanations are in order.” Cullen remarked gravely. “I hope, for your sake, that they are convincing.” 

“Nightingale, stop.” Varric’s limbs felt frozen from his long vigil, he thought he heard them creak when he pushed himself out of the chair pulled next to the bed. Maker, he was getting old. Leliana’s knuckles were white, gripping the collar of Bea’s jacket. 

“Beatrix Cadash is wanted in Ferelden, Orlais, and Nevarra.” Cullen revealed, pulling a scroll from within his coat. 

“I know this may surprise you, but she  _ is _ a lyrium smuggler.” The humor felt raw in his voice, desperately out of place.. “That’s still technically illegal.” 

“For murder.” Cullen added quietly, watching Bea’s face intently. “I have a list of names from both Ferelden and Orlais. All together, they are accusing you of assassinating upwards of 20 people. The merchant’s guild of each country is offering a substantial sum for your capture.” 

Varric’s stomach dropped somewhere around his knees. Bea tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, a spirited move that reminded him of Maria as she stared up evenly at both humans. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m being framed for murders I didn’t  _ actually _ commit?”

“You expect us to believe that there is a multi-nation vendetta to ensnare you? That you had nothing to do with these disappearances?” Leliana interrogated, leaning closer to Bea’s face. Bea took a deep breath before giving the most winning smile he’d ever seen.

“I didn’t say I had nothing to do with it.” She admitted. 

Damnit.

“Let me see that list, Curly.” Varric held his hand out tersely. Cullen dropped the scroll in it and Varric unrolled it quickly.

It was exactly what he’d begun to suspect as soon as he’d heard Cullen talk about the merchant guild’s reward. He didn’t know any of the names personally, but he knew family names. Bernot, Kondrat, Helmi, Dace. The rash of disappearances from the Merchant’s Guild that neither he or Maria had been very interested in. 

But there were other names too, mostly with fancy and pretentious titles attached to them. “Arabella de Freyen… wasn’t that the girl who ran away? Before Corypheus was defeated?” Varric asked, pinning Leliana with his gaze. “Her father petitioned Maria to help find her, but we didn’t have the resources and Maria said she didn’t particularly care to chase down runaways.” 

“The Orlesians have decided she was murdered instead.” Leliana growled. 

“Her hair shines red in the dingy light. It’s the same, her hair on a human girl. Fine dress under an old cloak, hands too soft for this place. Lip trembles with determination as they laugh her out. Nobody will touch her, nobody will help her.” Cole whispered. 

“She was supposed to marry a Duke.” Cullen said softly. 

“I won’t let him touch me. I know what he is.” Cole continued, eyes boring into Beatrix’s. “If they catch me, I’ll throw myself off the castle, I swear. I know what he did to his last wife. I know.” 

“A rumor.” Leliana stated uneasily. 

“She believed it.” Beatrix responded bitterly, reaching up and tugging the Divine’s hand from her collar. “She went to the tavern by the docks, begged someone to put her on a ship, and nobody would.” 

“She was the first.” Cole said softly. “You helped her. Because she had her hair.”

“Because I was drunk.” Bea snapped irritably. 

“Not as drunk as you pretend.” Cole whispered. “You knew. You wanted to help. Nanna’s dead and Maria doesn’t need my help, but she did.” 

During their first elopement attempt, the one that nearly ended with Varric dead and Bianca being dragged back to Orlais by her hair, they couldn’t find a ship. Nobody was brave enough, mad enough, to risk the wrath of the Merchant’s Guild. 

The second attempt, Bianca hadn’t even been brave enough to try. 

Beatrix Cadash had been… what, all of fourteen then? There’d been no one like her for Varric, nobody like her for Maria and Fynn. 

He remembered Maria coming up into her room on her birthday, smiling sadly, telling him Bianca had vanished as well. Vanished in Ostwick. He let his eyes roam down the page, skipping through the names, until he found it. 

Bianca Vasca. She’d be damned pissed that it wasn’t Davri, she always hated using her husband’s name. 

“I can prove to you she didn’t murder at least one of these people, Nightingale.” Varric said heavily. “She’s got a few gadgets stashed up her sleeves that I know only one person could have made.” 

“Although if I was going to murder one of those people, she’d be close to the top of the list.” Bea rumbled. “Pain in the ass, she is.” 

“You can prove that she has things that were made by a woman that vanished.” Leliana turned her glare on Varric. “You cannot prove that she is not a murderer. You cannot prove she has not betrayed everything her sister stood for.” 

“Stands for.” Beatrix corrected quietly. “And I wouldn’t. I would never…” 

“That is what we would have thought of Solas.” Cullen whispered, lowering his head to stare at the ground.

“She’s not Chuckles.” Varric stated firmly. “Andraste’s ass, she’s Maria’s sister.” 

“She abandoned her.” Leliana snapped. “Do not defend her, Varric, I…” 

“You couldn’t tell us, because if we knew, it put us at risk with the guild.” Varric rolled the scroll up tightly. “You couldn’t let the guild think Maria or I had anything to do with it. That’s why you stayed away.” 

“They couldn’t touch Maria.” Bea swallowed hard. “She was too important, but you…” 

“It wasn’t like the guild hadn’t tried to kill me before, Mittens.” Varric said softly. “I’m sure Rivaini told you that much.” 

“I couldn’t put the man my sister loves in danger. Not from the guild, not after what happened to Fynn. By the time they made you Viscount… well, the guild already figured out it was me. The good news is, the guild and I both agreed keeping it out of your sight was the best. They didn’t want you both involved any more than I did.” 

There it was, Beatrix Cadash’s heart laid bare.

“It is a simple enough thing to inform the guild that no murders have taken place. You must simply produce the missing people, and…” Cullen began. 

“She whistles when she kneads the dough. Soft hands turned calloused, marred with cuts from knives and burns from the oven. Still, she smiles and she whistles, beams when she sees me walk through the door. Flour in her red hair.” Cole smiled softly. “She’s happy. They’re all so happy you helped.” 

“I won’t be doing that.” Beatrix’s jaw tensed. Varric could see her heartbeat in her throat.

“You do not understand the situation you have found yourself in.” Leliana hissed. “There are guards, mercenaries, in the garden below us, down both hallways, and in the servant’s quarters. Whoever apprehends you has orders to transfer you swiftly back to Orlais, Nevarra, or Ferelden, where you will swing on the end of a rope if you do not...” 

“I knew they were coming.” Bea smiled, almost sadly. 

She sent her people away, but Bea stayed. Bea stayed for Maria, despite the risk. 

“Fuck, Mittens…” Varric groaned, rubbed his palm against his forehead, shot a pleading look back at Maria in the bed. He couldn’t… 

“I won’t leave while she’s still unconscious. I won’t go until she wakes up.” 

“You no longer really have that option.” Cullen remarked wryly. “Unless you believe you can fight off three dozen mercenaries by yourself. The Inquisition does not have the political power to shield you.” 

The Inquisition didn’t have any power with the Inquisitor laying in a bed, hovering between life and death. 

“Then you can arrest me.” 

Bea said it like it was the simplest answer she could think of. She plowed on, even as they all looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “You arrest me instead, take me into your custody. Then the Nevarrans, Fereldens, and Orlesians all get to fight over who gets to execute me. Your very pretty ambassador can draw out the negotiations. If I end up having to go with one of them, I’ll escape.” 

“They’re not going to give you much of a window and they’re not going to go straight to executions, you realize that.” Varric stated bluntly. “They want their people back. This isn’t like picking their pockets, Bea. You stole their legacy.” 

“I know what I did.” Bea was already disarming herself in a flurry of movement. Two daggers on the floor. Three. Four. “I’m not particularly sorry, either.” 

No, she wasn’t. And in spite of himself, he was proud of her. Maria would be too, after the initial panic and fury. “We’ll get you out, kid.” 

“Don’t you dare pull that paternalistic elder brother bullshit.” She gently laid Fynn’s dagger next to Maria. “It’s exactly the same bullshit Fynn used to do. Drove me bonkers.” 

“Was it really him?” 

She paused in the act of sorting through her poisons, shoving some in her boot. Her eyes flicked to Varric’s, as sharp and piercing as her sister’s. 

“I don’t know.” She admitted. “But I heard him, and I saw him. Just for a second, when I followed you, I saw them both. And that’s what he always said to her, I see you. Like it was their private joke, the way you call her Princess, and…” 

She stumbled to a stop, her eyes passing over him and back to her sister’s still form. “They loved her. If they’d come back for anyone, it’d have been for her.”

“They loved you too, I think.” Varric handed Bea back one of the other daggers. “Slip this in your other boot. Won’t hurt to have it.” 

“Like I don’t already have one in my other boot.” She laughed, a choked and sad sound. “Send word, as soon as she wakes up. It won’t be long now, I think. She never could resist pulling me out of the fire.” 

“I won’t let them hang you, Mittens. I promise.” 

“You better not. Bela would be cross, I still owe her two sovereigns after our last card game.” Bea pulled the shining gold disc from her pocket, pressed it into Varric’s hand. “Here, so she knows I was here, that I didn’t leave her.” 

Varric finally got a good look at the swirling design over the compact’s surface. A phoenix emerging from flames, soaring up and unfurling its wings. It was made of rubies and topaz and it glittered in his hand. 

A phoenix rising, resurrected from the ashes. 

“Come on Cullen, don’t look so glum.” Bea offered her slim wrists with a crooked grin. “Do you know how many men have wanted to have me in handcuffs? Think of the bragging rights.” 


	21. Passing Through Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exalted Council hadn’t ended, her daughter had never been born, Dorian wanted to go back to Tevinter, Varric was Viscount of Kirkwall, and she...   
> Maria shut her eyes, drew a ragged breath. “Am I dead, then?”   
> “Not quite.” The man stated evenly. “Not for lack of trying, I suppose."

The late afternoon sun warmed her shoulders, but she could smell fall in the air. It always came early at Skyhold, although she had to admit she’d never been an expert in the seasons. Ostwick really only had two of them: rainy and hot or rainy and cold. Regardless, fall was her favorite time of year at Skyhold. The trees around them would burst into color, shades of orange and yellow racing across the mountaintops. 

She placed her right hand on the child’s shoulder beside her, turned her just a smidge to the left. “There you go, love.” She brushed a golden curl from the girl’s face. The child smiled, impish and full of joy. She held a bow in  her hand, a small one carved just for her. “Ready to try again, Magpie?” 

“Yes.” She answered confidently, pulling the bow up. This time, her stance looked right. She raised her shoulder up too high, corrected before Maria could even say anything. She shot Harding an amused smile over the child’s head. 

“Alright Harding, get her an arrow.” Maria directed indulgently, letting her fingers skim over the child’s slim shoulder, across the pale line of her neck.

“Mom, stop.” The girl whined impatiently. From behind her, a familiar voice chuckled. Maria let her hand fall away with a roll of her eyes. 

“Here you go, little Inquisitor.” Harding placed a green feathered arrow into the girl’s hand. Maria watched as the girl set it against the bow. It careened wildly for a moment before she steadied it, shooting an abashed look up at Maria. Maria pretended not to notice and the child settled, drawing the bowstring back, letting the feather rest against her flushed cheek. 

This is where the nervousness came in. The girl shifted, shoulder raising up a bit too high again. Maria firmly placed her hand on it, pushing it back into place. “Don’t overthink it.” She advised. 

“I’m not.” The girl replied stubbornly. Harding giggled, but quickly turned it into a cough. Varric didn’t even try and Maria turned, looked over her shoulder with one eyebrow arched. She waved her free hand at the child’s back as if demanding an explanation. 

Varric had his journal opened as he sat with his back against a barrel, a blanket underneath him. This was their part of the courtyard, the place where she could hide for just a little while without anyone coming to look for her. 

Their place, his, hers, and Magpie’s. 

Varric quirked his own eyebrow and shook his head in a clear response, one that said ‘That stubbornness? That’s all you, Princess.’ He looked down quickly into his journal, quill skimming across the page as he wrote. He couldn’t hide the silly, reckless grin at his lips. 

Maria rolled her eyes skyward before looking back down at her daughter. “Alright then, whenever you’re done not thinking about it.” She teased fondly.

In a fit of temper, the child loosed the arrow. She shifted a bit as it flew, causing it to hit just shy of center. Still, it embedded itself remarkably close to the bullseye. Magpie looked at it, shocked, then turned up to peer into Maria’s face. Maria nodded, smiling in satisfaction down at her and Magpie shrieked in joy, the bow falling, forgotten from her fingers. 

“Harding, did you see?” She asked. 

“Very well done, Miss Marguerite. I’ll be asking your mother to take you out scouting, soon.” Harding matched Magpie’s sunny grin with one of her own. But her daughter’s attention had already shifted, fickle as any child’s, and she’d darted back towards Varric. Varric had just enough time to quickly and deftly set aside the journal with its drying ink before Magpie threw herself into his lap. 

“Did you see?” She inquired eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“I did, Sunshine.” Varric laughed, tucking that damn blonde curl, the one that always fell loose, back behind her ear. “Impeccable, just like your mother.” 

“Can I use Bianca now?” She pressed eagerly. Varric’s eyes flicked guiltily past her daughter’s head with a helpless expression. 

She hoped the smile she shot back said, clearly, ‘That’s all you, Varric.’ 

“She’s still a bit heavy for you, Sunshine.” Varric cooed to a face that was quickly becoming thunderous. 

Maria turned quickly to hide her laughter, picking one of the arrows from the quiver and stringing it in her own bow. It flew without a thought, trembling in the wood next to her daughter’s without much effort on her part.

“Inquisitor, if you have a moment…” Josephine made her way past Varric, board out and quill in hand. “There are a few matters that require your attention, I promise I will make them quick.” 

“What do you think, Sunshine?” Varric asked the child on his lap, pressing his forehead against hers with a roguish grin. “Should we let Ruffles borrow your mom?” 

“No!” Magpie responded immediately, shooting a petulant look up at Josie. 

“If I am allowed to borrow her, I will arrange for an extra honey cake to be added to your dinner my lady.” Josephine wheedled. Maria saw Magpie’s gray eyes consider this thoughtfully before she tipped her head to the side and held up two of her pudgy fingers.

“You drive a hard bargain, but consider it done.” Josephine made as if to write a note with a flourish, smiling down at Varric and Marguerite. Maria sat her own bow down, stretching. 

“I see how replaceable I am.” She teased, bending over to brush a kiss on top of those beautiful gold curls. 

“We’ll be right here when you’re done.” Varric promised as she caught his chin in her fingers. She ran her finger over the stubble on his jaw, shaking her head in mock sternness. 

“If I come down and find my daughter with that crossbow, it’ll be kindling.” She threatened. Varric sighed theatrically.

“And yet, I’d still love you.” He admitted softly, pressing a quick kiss against her lips. 

 

Josephine chattered as they ambled through the courtyard. Sera and Dagna waved from the tavern roof as they passed, but Cassandra had her nose so far in Varric’s latest dirty book she didn’t even look up. Cole carried a basket of kittens up one of staircases and Bull knocked a recruit over in the sparring ring under Cullen’s watchful eye and Dorian’s rather more… lustful gaze. 

“Oh!” Josephine stopped at nearly the top step, patting her pockets in annoyance. “My apologies, I seem to have… oh, Sera!” 

“Did she steal your office key again?” Maria tried to hide her amusement, but didn’t manage it well considering the deathly glare Josephine sent her way. 

“Stay here!” Josephine ordered firmly, beginning to stalk back down the steps. Maria grinned, shook her head and took a moment to sweep her gaze over the sprawl of Skyhold with the great hall at her back. Then she turned and slipped inside the silent, empty hall. 

She let her eyes linger over the empty tables, set in preparation for supper, before she looked to her right, into the rotunda. The bare walls stretched white and endless, the space completely empty. It made her feel… odd to look at. A waste of space, she decided, tossing her uneasy feeling to the side. She needed to put something in there, although what she couldn’t decide… 

She reached for the lockpicks in her pocket, intent on popping the lock to Josie’s room before the woman returned, but a prickling sensation stopped her cold, made her turn her eyes to the throne at the top of the room instead. 

A dwarf stood beside it, his hand gentle against the cold metal, sweeping over it appraisingly. He made a non-committal hum in his throat before he looked up from it, meeting her eyes instantly. 

Her eyes, she thought wildly. Her eyes in a man’s face, her red hair glinting on his head, in his beard. 

“I was waiting for you to make it up here on your own, but I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t come unless you were torn away.” The man began gravely, gesturing to the throne. “Nice chair. Bit ostentatious, but I suppose when you’re a little thing like you, go big or go home, right?” 

His lips quirked in amusement and Maria took an uncertain step forward. 

“I know you don’t remember him, but I thought you might like to see his face again.” The man continued, reaching up to scratch at his beard idly. 

The word sounded wrong in her mouth, but she said it anyway. “Dad?” 

“Not quite. But close, I suppose.” He indicated her throne, stepping away from it. “Have a seat, you’ve earned it. We’ve got quite a lot to talk about.” 

This wasn’t right. Maria looked over her shoulder, the queer uneasy feeling rising in her belly. The rotunda, the rotunda with the blank walls, the autumn sun, the light shining on golden curls… 

“Breathe through it, girl.” The dwarf advised. “If you wouldn’t have stayed here too damn long as is, this wouldn’t be such a shock.” 

Stayed here. Stayed here too damn long. 

“This is my home.” She muttered through lips that felt frozen. The dwarf in front of her considered her, frowning. 

“What happened to your hand, Maria?” He asked. 

“What?” She snapped, curling her hand into a fist and looking down at it. There was nothing wrong with her hand, nothing at all. 

“Yes, that’s the problem.” He stated impatiently. “Think, how did you become Inquisitor in the first place? What happened to the anchor?” 

The answer came like a well loved, cherished lie. “Dorian took it out. He figured out a way, before Magpie was born.” 

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “And how did the Exalted Council end?” 

Ferelden and Orlais were convinced to let them continue, her mind supplied immediately. Eagerly. 

“And why is Varric here, and not at Kirkwall?” 

“Hawke is the Viscount. She’s there with Fenris, and Fledgling. They visit, with Thom and Varania and Sabina, but Hawke’s the Viscount and Varric…” 

“Dorian never went back to Tevinter because…?” 

Her throat was swelling with uncomfortable pressure. Something was shattering in the back of her mind, illusions cracking like ice in the spring. 

“And your sister? Where is she?” 

“Nanna and Bea are in Ostwick…” She began, her voice unsteady, unsure. 

“Fynn Dunhark?” He questioned again.

They ran away together, made it to Antiva, but drifted apart. He stayed, married a local girl, had babies of his own and she...

“What about Solas?” The man asked quietly. 

The blank rotunda. The one that shouldn’t be blank, the one that was painted with elaborate scenes from her life, all except the last panel. The last one that Solas never finished. It was probably a portrait of a wolf swallowing her whole. 

The Exalted Council hadn’t ended, her daughter had never been born, Dorian wanted to go back to Tevinter, Varric was Viscount of Kirkwall, and she... 

Maria shut her eyes, drew a ragged breath. “Am I dead, then?” 

“Not quite.” The man stated evenly. “Not for lack of trying, I suppose. You certainly don’t seem eager to return.” 

Return to what? Despair threatened to overwhelm her and she choked on the dread rising in her throat. She wanted to go back downstairs, wanted to pick up her daughter, wanted to kiss Varric and tell him… 

“I haven’t wanted to speak to one of my children in a very, very long time. I thought I never would again, but here you are.” The man whispered softly. “I couldn’t resist, I’m afraid.” 

“This isn’t real.” She stated firmly. This was her mind firing off random synapses, conjuring hallucinations as she slipped into death. And damnit, if she was dying, she’d rather spend it in Varric’s arms. She turned on her heel, back to the door.

The door that had vanished, soundlessly, behind her. 

“The entire world tells you you’re chosen, but you still don’t believe, do you?” He asked, sitting on the dais, stretching out his legs as he examined her. “Curious. Most others would.” 

“I heard Solas. I’m an accident, a dwarf at the wrong place at the wrong time. This wasn’t… divine providence.” She indicated herself angrily. “I wasn’t chosen.” 

“He’s half right and you’re half wrong.” The man answered cryptically. “You weren’t chosen, but it wasn’t an accident, Maria Cadash. You were exactly where I meant you to be.” 

The man’s eyes glowed, bright white, before returning to her shade of gray. “I knew what would happen, I knew what would transpire the moment Solas handed over his orb. I thought to let it happen, to see this world burn and perhaps start again in a millennia, to give this up as a failed experiment. But at the last moment… I changed my mind. I set eight people on the path to Haven, six made it there. Four heard an old woman cry out in the dark.”

She wanted to ask what happened to the other three, but that would mean giving this… whatever this was, any credence at all. 

“One of them ignored her cry and continued on as if he heard nothing. The other two stopped, but hesitated. But you… you chose to go towards it without a thought for your own well-being, without concern for why you were there. You heard an old woman scream for help and came running. And thus, you lived. The others perished.” 

He paused thoughtfully, examining her. “I never moved to assist you, I never turned against your enemies, I never plucked you from danger. I did nothing to aid your quest because I expected you to fail.” 

“I did.” 

The admission tasted like ash in her mouth. “I didn’t see through Solas and everyone I loved will die because of it. Isn’t that enough of a punishment without a lecture?” 

“If I meant to punish you, would I have given you this?” He waved his hand to encompass Skyhold. “A place to rest, if only for a moment. A perfect place filled with everything you loved. Where you had lost nothing, where you could be happy.” 

“You told me I can’t stay.” 

“That’s true.” He admitted. “I’ve come to pull you out. You’ve been here long enough, it’s time.” 

“No.” She remembered the pain, she remembered her failure. She remembered the ashes in her throat, the dying baby inside her. The broken, shattered expression on Varric’s face. “I won’t go back. I’m staying here.” 

He studied her, much the same way Dorian examined his potions. “You think you have failed, and yet the world is intact, despite the tear in the sky. Despite the threats of a man who thought himself a god once.” 

But her daughter was here, Varric was here. The man wearing her father’s face sighed, shaking his head slowly.

“I didn’t choose you then, but I’ve picked you now.” He whispered wearily. “You showed a tired old creature that there’s still something worth saving. Now, I’m trusting you to do it.” 

“You can make me go back, but you can’t make me fight Solas.” She clenched her hands into fists. “You can’t.” 

“You’re a betting woman, Maria Cadash.” He grinned, a mad sort of grin. Like a cat who’d swallowed the canary. “Do you think I couldn’t make you fight, if I needed you to?” 

The order came easily. “Pick someone else.” She demanded. “Make another herald if that’s what you fucking want. Not me.” 

He chuckled, shaking his head back and forth before standing, sauntering past Maria. “Who else could be responsible for all your dashing heroics? Carta dwarf with a heart of gold… it’s a good story.” 

He snapped his fingers and the doors reappeared with a vengeance, flying open, revealing a night sky full of lanterns floating leisurely towards the stars. Their bright glow warm, soft. She could smell summer flowers, hear singing… 

“You’ll provide the heroics, I’ll provide the miracles. In the meantime… say goodbye, Maria Cadash.” The man said over his shoulder, leisurely beginning to descend down the stairs. She could swear she heard him  _ whistling. _

She started to storm after, was stopped by a broad hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it isn’t the wisest course of action to argue with a God, Cadash.” 

“It does seem to be something she keeps doing heedless of whether it’s wisdom.” Zarra sighed wearily. Maria turned, the hand falling off her shoulder as she moved, staring at her grandmother and Fynn together, nearly shoulder to shoulder. The way they’d never stood in real life. 

“Is this real?” She asked, tears rising up before she could stop them. “Was any of this real? With you? Both of you?”

“That’s a complicated question, Maria.” Zarra twisted the ring on her finger thoughtfully. 

“I’d hazard that it’s more real than not.” Fynn stroked his beard, glaring out the open doors into the lantern strewn night. “Those are all for you, you know.” 

“I was always one for the grand gesture.” She admitted weakly. Fynn grinned under his beard, shaking his head in exasperated amusement. 

“I am so proud of you.” Zarra clasped her arm, then the other one, pulling her to her chest. “You have been spectacular. I couldn’t be more proud of you or Beatrix.” 

“I… it was my fault…” Maria wrapped her arms around her grandmother’s waist, buried her head in the familiar softness of her shoulder. She smelled like lavender, like the sea, like home, like the great dining room with the long table, the gardens where they played, the harbor overlooking the ocean… 

“It was not.” Zarra smoothed Maria’s hair down gently, patiently. “My sweet girl, you cannot take the blame for my death and neither can Beatrix. I made old bones, I saw you grow up. I got everything I wanted.” 

Not everything. “Not a great-grandchild.” She whispered harshly. 

“Hush.” Zarra pressed her lips against her temple, threaded her fingers through her hair to anchor her in place. “There could be others. And if there is not… well, I’ve never known you not to adopt strays of whatever people come into your life anyway. You only need provide me with one more thing, my darling.” 

“I can’t fight anymore.” Maria whispered, broken. “I can’t do it.” 

“You can, and you will. When you’re ready.” Zarra stroked her hair gently. “But Beatrix needs you now. She’s… well, she didn’t think and made some foolish decisions, of course. She wouldn’t be herself otherwise. You’ll fetch her for me, one last time? She’s in more danger than she bargained for.” 

She nodded, silent, against Zarra’s shoulder. Zarra squeezed her tighter, enveloping her in warmth. 

Then she pulled away, tucking Maria’s hair behind her ear. “I love you. I love you more than life itself, Maria. I always have. I am sorry you have been called to this, I would not have wished it on you.” 

“I won’t do it.” Maria protested, tongue thick in her mouth. Zarra smiled sadly, taking another step back and shooting a glance at the man standing still and quiet beside them. 

“Well, don’t you have anything to say?” Zarra asked, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at Fynn. 

“Maybe we could have a moment alone, Zarra.” Fynn shot a pointed look at the door. Zarra scowled for a moment before turning on her heel and walking to the door, pausing just inside the frame. 

“Unsurprisingly,” Fynn began dryly. “She still hates me.” 

The laugh startled her and she wiped her wet eyes on the back of her palm. “Maybe, but she didn’t buy the assassins.” 

“No.” Fynn frowned darkly. “No, that was my father, wasn’t it?”

“Nanna was probably planning to off you herself.” Maria supplied helpfully before falling into pained silence. “Fynn, I…” 

“Don’t apologize.” He ordered grimly. “I don’t want to hear that you regretted loving me.” 

No, she couldn’t regret loving him, never that. “I killed you.” 

“No you didn’t.” He held out his hand, a golden wedding band glinting in it. “My father sent this to me in Hercinia, tracked me down through the guild. Said the assassins sent it to prove the job was done, that my ‘madness’ could end. That I could come back to Ostwick. I thought I killed you.” 

He closed his fingers over the ring again, squeezed it tight as he looked out the door. “I told him I was coming to kill him, and I was. I swear it. I wanted him dead, I wanted to fix it. I should have… the minute we learned he was trying to hire assassins to kill you. We shouldn’t have fled, I should have killed him.” 

“Fynn, he was your father. I couldn’t have asked you…” 

“Your Varric would have killed him without a second thought.” Fynn snapped. “And he’d have been right to.” 

Her Varric. Not in Skyhold’s courtyard holding their daughter, but in the crossroads somewhere. Alone, with the ashes of their shared dreams lingering in the air. Maria couldn’t breathe past the guilt, the shame welling up inside her. 

“Hey, look at me.” Fynn captured her chin in his fingers, pointed her eyes back at his. “I knew, Maria. Do you honestly think the Merchant’s Guild didn’t know the city was going to lock those poor bastards in the docks and burn them? Do you really believe I didn’t see the greedy bastards trying to save their goods? I had a chance to flee, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.” 

Maria felt the ground fall away under her feet, everything she knew or thought she knew falling by the wayside. “You knew and you stayed? What kind of daft…” 

“I tried to save them. I stormed into the guild and demanded they put a stop to the burning, I said if they didn’t I would go back out and tell all those people they were about to be torched alive. I thought you were dead, and I knew you wouldn’t have left those sorry sods to die like that. How could I have done any less?” 

Fynn reached for her right hand, brought it up to his chest. She felt something warm under her fingers, something sticky. She looked down in alarm, seeing the blood staining her fingertips. Carefully, her rested his palm over her hand. She could feel the blood seeping through both their fingers. “I didn’t burn, Maria. The guild killed me rather than let me cause a fuss. I was dead long before you and Bea made it to Hercinia. I was gone right around the time your sister was rescuing you from your would be assassins.” 

“I saw…” Her fingers clutched in his bloody shirt. “Fynn, I saw you…” 

In the fade, the nightmare. Fynn shook his head. “You saw your fears, your guilt. Not the truth. Maybe it’s time to stop being afraid of the flames. They can’t hurt you, not when you just rise from the ashes.” 

“Who?” Maria demanded through her tears. “Who killed you, I can…” 

“Let Bea worry about the guild. She’ll pay them back for us ten times over by the time she’s done. You’ve got larger problems.” He chanced a glance out the door into the night. 

“He can’t make me. I don’t care who he is, I didn’t choose this. I don’t want it.” 

Her fingers trembled as they clutched onto Fynn. He laughed, low in his chest. “Never thought I’d see the day you ran from a fight, Cadash.” 

Her fights got people hurt. Got people killed. Her baby, Varric, Bea…

“I know you, Maria. You’ll get back up and keep going. Doing nothing… it’d drive you right up the wall. It would burn you up inside.” 

“I don’t know how.” She whispered. She’d never known how, not really. She’d been making it up as she went along, which hadn’t exactly worked for her. At least she understood darkspawn and demons, templars and mages, red lyrium and blight, but a war between gods, with her stuck in the middle? 

“When it’s time, you’ll do it.” Fynn leaned forward, brushed his warm lips against her forehead. “You’ll do it, and you’ll keep on doing it. You’ll continue on until you die, or until the world does. There’s no other way, Maria, and there never was. Not for you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut tight. She wanted to scream, to rage. She wanted to throw over all the tables, knock the plates and platters to the ground, light her throne on fire. She wanted to burn it all down around her ears rather than be used, not like this. 

“Mind if I cut in, Dunhark?” 

Varric’s voice, laced with laughter, cut through the silence. Maria looked over her shoulder, took in the sight of him by the fireplace. He leaned carefully against the chair he usually occupied when he was at Skyhold, one eyebrow raised. 

Fynn stepped back, carefully pulling her hand from his bleeding chest. “I know you promised, that last night in Ostwick, that you’d never love anyone else except me for your entire life.” 

“Fynn, I…” She owed him an apology, an explanation. 

“It was a stupid promise to make.”  Fynn dropped her mother’s wedding band into her open hand. “And I’m not holding you to it. You were the great love of my life, Maria, but I wasn’t the great love of yours.” 

“I’m sorry.” She curled her fingers over the warm metal in her palm. 

“Don’t be. For a brief, shining second, the woman who saved the world loved me.” Fynn grinned, amused. “Not bad, for a damn kid from Ostwick.” 

She laughed against the tears and Fynn slowly let go of her hand. “Goodbye, Maria Cadash.” 

She couldn’t say it, but she nodded, tearing herself away from his side. Varric held out his hand as she approached, pulling her to his chest as soon as he could. “You’re not real.” She accused.

“Guilty.” He admitted with a shameless, brazen grin. “But I am  _ really _ waiting for you, Princess. And you’re running late.” 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” She whispered. Varric’s eyes caught afire at the statement and he pulled her hungrily to his mouth, pausing just before he captured her lips.

“The only thing that hurts, Maria, is the thought that you’re not coming home to me.” He whispered desperately. 

She could hear the crackle of fire. Smell smoke. Around her, flames were spreading, rising up to claim the tapestries, the wooden beams. They scorched the walls and seared up against her skin. Varric didn’t move from the inferno, and neither did she. 

She closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill before she answered in a harsh whisper. “Bring me home then.”

His lips crashed into hers and Skyhold burned around them. 


	22. High Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you do when you’ve got a hand you can’t win, Princess?”   
> “Fold, Varric, but nobody will fucking let me!” She exploded indignantly, kicking a loose piece of brick with her boot in a fit of temper.   
> “You cheat.” Cole whispered from his place on the floor.   
> Bea laughed in delight and Varric grinned. “Exactly.”

Varric didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have. He was on his side, stretched out next to Maria’s form, one arm thrown across her abdomen protectively, his leg over hers. Sunlight warmed his back, fell over her face. His mind, slow to remember the past day, immediately supplied that it was nice to wake up before her on the rare occasions he could. 

But his eyes traced down her neck to the white scars covering her shoulder and everything flooded back. No wonder he was curled around her as tightly as a vine, after what they’d been through… 

His hand rose and fell in time with her even breathing, which was good. Not as good as her waking up, but still a start. He shifted his aching leg off of hers, propping himself up on his other hand. 

“You’re awake.” Cassandra observed from the chair on the other side of the bed, the one he vacated to lay down to next to Maria after he’d let Curly take Beatrix to the dungeons. The Seeker had her fingers steepled together, elbows on her knees as she leaned forward, forehead against her fingertips like she’d been praying.

“How long have I been out?” His voice was hoarse, although whether that was from sleep or all the damned yelling of the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t say. 

“Perhaps three hours.” Cassandra guessed. “There has been no change.” 

Yeah, if there had been, Varric would have noticed before the Seeker. He didn’t need to point out the way he clung to Maria as if she’d vanish in a blaze of ash completely. He began to summon up the appropriate retort, spinning it to the tip of his tongue. 

But his one hand still rested on her stomach and he felt her twitch beneath it, a feeble stirring that very nearly stole his breath away. He pushed himself up the rest of the way immediately, kneeling on the bed. “Seeker…” He started cautiously. 

Maria’s eyelids fluttered, lashes dusting her cheek bones, before they opened slowly, blearily. Varric just caught sight of her silver eyes before she closed them again, a weak shuddering breath escaping from her lips. A breath that sounded very much like his name. 

“I’m right here.” His voice shook, relief breaking over him like a cold sweat. “I’m right here, Princess.” 

Maria swallowed hard in her throat, but she didn’t open her eyes again. “Varric.” She repeated, her voice as harsh as his. 

Cassandra sagged backwards into the chair, collapsing. “Thank the Maker.” She whispered fervently. 

Maria twisted to the side, a hollow and mocking laugh falling from her lips. It raised the hair on the back of his neck, made something inside him ache worryingly. Before she could twist much further, Varric moved his hand to her right shoulder, pinning her to the bed. “Hold on a second, Maria. You… it was close. Really damn close, this time. Let’s take it easy for a minute.” 

Just a damn minute. Long enough for Sparkler to give her a once over. 

As if Varric summoned him, Dorian elbowed Cassandra out of the way and leaned over the bed, pressing his fingers against Maria’s pulse. “Nice of you to rejoin us. I’m a bit sad the Magisterium missed such a melodramatic performance, honestly. It’d be all the rage for years.” 

“Because that’s what my week needed.” Maria groaned. “Magisters.” 

She sounded so much like herself Varric struggled not to openly weep. Dorian swallowed too, face softening into something pure and honest. 

“I would have missed you terribly, you noble idiot. And it would have fallen to me to tell Cullen we’d let you lock yourself into an Eluvian. Me!”

“You should have left me there.” 

Varric struggled not to flinch, to school his expression into something neutral. Dorian sighed wearily, lifting his hand from Maria’s pulse. “How do you feel?” 

“Like my hand exploded.” Maria tried to pull up and away, Varric kept the steady pressure on her shoulder, pinning her beneath the blanket. She opened her eyes, fixed them on him in puzzled and dazed bewilderment. “Varric…”

He inhaled, steadied himself. “I love you.” He lifted his other hand, pressed it against her cheek and kept her eyes on his. “I love you and I always will. Nothing is going to change that, okay? Tell me you understand that.”

Fear rose in her eyes, eyes that were steadily becoming more alert. She shifted, tried to pull her arm free from her grip. Varric didn’t let go. “Maria.” He called urgently, bringing her attention back to him. 

“Where’s my sister?” She asked, her voice cracking. Varric’s heart clenched. 

“Not here, but safe. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll tell you… I will, just…” First things first. “What happened to you… Maria, you can’t just walk away from that shit like nothing happened.” 

“I know, the baby, I’m sorry…” She began immediately. Varric closed his eyes for a second, steeling himself against her sorrow. He opened them again, leaning his forehead against hers and staring into her tear filled eyes. 

“Not just the baby, Maria.” He began gently, as if he’d cornered a frightened cat. “Your arm was gone, the anchor turned it to ash. We… we cut it off. I’m sorry.” 

She froze under his hand, disbelief etched deeply into her face. She shook her head mutely, slowly. Varric eased his hand off her shoulder, gathered his stiff fingers in the quilt and pulled it down. Her eyes fixed on the gesture, watching as he unveiled her scarred skin, ending in a smooth stump just above where her elbow had been. 

Maria stared at her arm, completely motionless. Never a good sign. Varric and Cassandra shared a pained look behind her back and Varric slowly moved to bring his hand back to her shoulder. 

She flinched and Varric’s heart stuttered, but he was a gentleman, damnit. If the lady didn’t want him to touch her, that was fine. He rested his hand beside her hip instead. He waited, the silence stretching ominously. 

He expected a flare of her famous temper. He thought she’d rage against Solas, threaten to burn Halamshiral, anything. He couldn’t hope to be prepared for the cold defeat that settled over her features, the way she sank back down into the bed. She curled up onto her side, drew her knees up as far as they could go. 

“Leave me alone.” She begged wearily, turning her face into the pillows.

Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to lock the doors, let her face this in her own time, on her own terms. He hated what he had to do next more than he hated anything else. “Sweetheart… there’s more. There’s… a lot more.” 

“Let Solas burn the world.” Maria’s voice, muffled into the pillows, was bitter as deathroot. “I don’t care, and even if I did, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?” 

He didn’t have an answer for that, and really, it was one of the less pressing problems they had to face. “It’s Bea, Maria. We’ve got a serious problem.” 

 

It was more serious than Varric even knew, but he realized it;d gotten worse as soon as he saw Curly and Ruffles. Both of their faces wore matching grim expressions as they explained to Maria exactly how fucked Beatrix was.

And not the good kind of fucked, Isabela would say. Varric, frankly, didn’t want to be the one to tell the pirate queen her favorite smooshy dwarf was inches away from the noose. 

Not many people could make three different branches of the guild agree on something, but Beatrix Cadash could. They were all willing to cede their separate claims of murder charges to Orlais, since that’s the prison Mittens found herself in. The Orlesian guild was clamoring to take charge of their prisoner as soon as possible due to the  _ obvious _ conflicts of interest with the Inquisition holding Beatrix.

“Tell them no.” Maria demanded, hunched over her desk, leaning on her one good arm. Her voice still sounded like shattered glass and she was obviously not nearly well enough to be having this conversation. She moved like she’d aged ten years in a day, stiff and sore, favoring her entire right side over her left. Underneath her palm, she held the shining gold mirror embedded with rubies that Bea left. Her fingers were white with strain as she clutched it. 

“I… I am uncertain if that is wise.” Josephine averted her eyes in alarm from Maria’s fury. “It will lead to a confrontation. The Orlesian and Ferelden ambassadors feel already as if the Inquisition is dangerously out of control and that we have brought great danger…” 

Maria slammed her palm down on the desk, loudly. Varric hoped she hadn’t just broken the mirror. They didn’t need more shitty luck. Josephine soldiered on. “They will not allow us to continue to hold a known criminal for no good reason other than…” 

“That she’s innocent?” Maria asked harshly. 

“Your judgment in the matter, no matter how sound it is, will no longer be enough for the dignitaries. Not after…” 

Not after Solas. Not after his promised destruction after all the time he’d spent at Maria’s side. Shit, it was Blondie and Hawke all over again. 

“Cullen?” Maria asked desperately. 

“If it comes to blows, we will be outnumbered. The guards at Halamshiral will side with these mercenaries and the guild.” Cullen reported evenly. “I could guarantee that your sister makes it to safety, I think, but there will be casualties.” 

“And severe consequences.” Josephine added. “For every person here who is part of the Inquisition.” 

“Then we’ll just let her escape.” Maria argued impassionately. “Surely we can…” 

“Ignoring the political consequences of such a move…” 

“They are prepared for that deception, Inquisitor.” Cullen rubbed his forehead, the expression on his face resigned. “There will still be bloodshed. Without official Inquisition assistance, I cannot guarantee your sister will escape unharmed.” 

Maria straightened, jaw tense as she stared down Josephine and Cullen. The cuff of her shirt, hastily pinned up by Vivienne when Maria insisted on leaving the bed despite their protests, drooped limply. Cullen’s eyes flicked to it, then back to Maria’s face. “Where are Charter and Leliana?” Maria asked coldly.

“Divine Victoria assured me she is attempting to work out another plan, but she needs more time.” Josephine tapped her board with her quill in irritation. “I am simply unsure how much time I can give her.” 

“Hold them off then, Ruffles. I suggest ale and cards if you need to distract them.” Varric muttered darkly. Maria stared down at her hand, the mirror clenched in her fist, shook her head in disgust before pushing away from the desk, stalking towards the door. 

“Inquisitor, please… in your condition…” Josephine pleaded. 

“I am going to see my sister.” Maria rounded on Josephine, eyes flashing like a falcon’s before the kill. “And I’d like to see someone stop me.” 

Varric would bet serious gold that nobody could.  

 

Cullen kindly put Beatrix Cadash in the best cell he could. It was positively roomy, for a dwarf anyway, and she even had clean linens on her cot. A tray of untouched eggs and sausage sat on the floor and a window high up off the ground threw bright light in between the bars. 

Beatrix sat in the block of sunlight, her back to the bars. Cole sat in the aisle with his back pressed against hers through the metal grating. He wrung his hands anxiously as Bea laughed, the smokey sound too lighthearted for the dungeon. “Alright, alright.” Bea’s voice carried down the hall when they walkd in, amusement sparkling like champagne bubbles. “What am I thinking of now?” 

“Breath fogs the window pane. Rain slashes against the windows. Take her hand in mine, small. Use her finger to trace shapes. She giggles, pushes her whole palm against the window. Imprint of tiny fingers left behind.” 

“Not even close. Balls, kid. I thought you’d be better at this.” 

“You don’t remember, but she does.” Cole whispered.

Before Bea could ask who, Cole turned to stare down the hallway at them. He frowned in their direction. “I brought her food, in case they didn’t. But she won’t eat.” 

“Who is it?” Bea called, cheerful. “Cullen, if that’s you, I hope you brought me something to do. I’m bored to tears.” 

Maria steeled herself and stepped forward, steps silent and light. Still, somehow, Bea realized who it was a second before Maria emerged into her line of sight. The woman inside the cell jumped up, a seashell clattering from her lap onto the ground. Varric noted that Cole finally found one of the ones you could hold up to your ear, the ones that held the ocean inside their tightly curled curves. 

“Maria.” Her name was a sigh of relief on Bea’s tongue, a slender arm reaching through the bars to tangle in the loose blouse. “Thank the Maker. Cullen said you woke up, but I… damnit, I wanted to see you myself.” 

Varric leaned back against the empty cell across the way, catching Bea’s tear filled eyes and sharing a sorrowful smile. Maria slowly brought her hand up to Bea’s fingers, attempting to tear them free. Bea clung on tighter, letting her eyes trace her sister’s face hungrily, down the line of her shoulder, to the arm that ended before it should. 

“Right, I know that’s bad.” Bea began breathlessly, staring at it with hard eyes. “But we’ll get past it, promise.” 

“Beatrix.” Maria’s voice sliced through her sister’s comforting words. Bea flinched, but didn’t let go of Maria’s blouse. Instead, she calmly raised her steely eyes and met her sister’s gaze evenly. 

“How could you?” Maria asked bitterly. “How could you risk everything like this? Do you have any idea…” 

“I’ve got lots of ideas. Typically bad ones.” Bea’s smile, wicked and playful, only served to cause Maria’s ears to turn red in fury. 

“What would Nanna say?” Maria demanded, reaching her own arm through the bars to grab Beatrix’s shoulder. 

“Alright, well, first off.” Bea continued to smile charmingly. “She’d at the very least have been amused. You know I always got away with murder with Nanna.” 

“This isn’t a game, Bea!” Maria raged. 

“It is and I won.” Bea shrugged simply. “If I wasn’t winning, they wouldn’t be trying so damn hard to lock me up.” 

“They’re going to kill you, but not before they try and get their people back. And I don’t have the influence to get you out of this.” 

“Cullen already told me.” Bea’s smile fell, her eyes burning as brightly as her sister’s. “I know it looks bad, but there’s a way out. I’ll find it, I swear.” 

Maria ripped herself away from her sister, tearing out of her grip and running her hand through her frazzled hair. “For fuck’s sake, Bea. Just give them what they want. If you tell them where these people are, Josie and I can get you out of this.” 

Bea collapsed against the bars, pushing her forehead against the cold metal. “Stop.” She moaned. 

“Bea, please.” Maria begged. “Just… for once in your damn life do the sensible thing.” 

“Keep our heads down, you mean?” Bea’s voice reminded Varric of the edge of her daggers, sharp enough to slice a throat. “Let the guild walk all over us? Constantly be afraid we didn’t pay  big enough bribe? Hide our knives under smiles, let them pinch our asses?” 

Bea jerked her chin at Varric, letting her fingers curl around the bars in front of her. “He told me to do things my way if I was going to inherit the damn family business, so I did.” 

“Mittens, this isn’t exactly what I meant.” Varric groaned into his own hand, rubbing his rough stubble. He needed to shave. 

“You’re delusional.” Maria accused, narrowing her eyes. Bea spun on her heel, away from the bars, staring up at the window high above her. 

“Do you remember how you used to cheat the guild out of all their coin at cards?” Bea asked softly. “Every single one of them, every noble ass who couldn’t stop staring at your tits. It was  _ glorious _ . I thought… I honestly thought they’d never bring you down, Maria.” 

Bea laughed ruefully in the dark cell. “But they broke your heart and I didn’t forget, and I didn’t forgive them. So… when I saw a chance to break theirs, I did. I fucking did it, and I don’t regret it. But this isn’t just some… deed to a vineyard in Antiva that Nanna can make us give back to keep the peace. These are people, Maria, real live people who… tried to play by the rules, but got hurt anyway. Wives running from husbands who kick them around, people being sold off in marriages to pay debts, forced into businesses they want nothing to do with, wars that aren’t theirs.” 

“Their lives aren’t worth yours.” Maria whispered harshly. “I don’t care about them, Bea. You’re my sister. My baby sister.” 

“I’m not a baby any longer and I haven’t been since I went over Hercinia’s walls to pull you out.” 

Varric remembered the flames from the nightmare, remembered the way they burned, the screams of the people going up into ash. He remembered Bea the way Maria did, young and fresh faced. “I’m all grown up now and I’ve changed. I can’t play by their rules for one more second.” 

How often did Varric think that? Every time he sat down to a mountain of long neglected correspondence, every time he had too much to drink and found his mind wondering, wistful, to the way Bianca laughed in her forge when they’d been young themselves. Clever and untouchable, so they’d thought.  

He hated them every single time the guild snickered behind their hands when they announced Inquisitor Cadash, the carta rat turned Herald of Andraste. 

“Let them come for me.” Bea turned back to them, tossing her dark hair back and smiling, a smile that showed all her teeth as if she was baring them before biting. “You might be afraid of them, but I’m not. They can’t hurt me.” 

“They can and they will!” Maria yelled, a tear falling down her face. “I can’t lose you too, Bea. Please.” 

“You won’t.” Bea promised, slinking quickly back over to the bars. “You’re not thinking clearly, but there’s a way out of this. I know there is.” 

“I have nothing left to help you.” Maria looked… defeated. Tired. “I don’t have any influence, I don’t have an army. I don’t even have my damn arm, Bea.” 

Solas’s words in her mouth, telling her she had nothing, was nothing. A mistake, an accident. Varric stepped forward quickly. “We’ve got you, that’s enough.” More than enough. “We need to stop thinking like the Inquisition, Maria. That isn’t going to help us here.” 

They needed to stop playing by the rules, Bea was right. More than right. He’d been stupid not to see it earlier. Varric caught Maria’s eyes, asked her one simple question. “What do you do when you’ve got a hand you can’t win, Princess?” 

“Fold, Varric, but nobody will fucking let me!” She exploded indignantly, kicking a loose piece of brick with her boot in a fit of temper. 

“You cheat.” Cole whispered from his place on the floor. 

Bea laughed in delight and Varric grinned. “Exactly.” 


	23. The Death of Inquisitor Cadash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I loved you.” The way he said it, she knew there was no past tense there. “I loved you, and that’s why I couldn’t let you go. I’m sorry you can’t forgive me for not leaving you to die.”
> 
> This was off script, this was the truth. Shining and brilliant like the sun up above them. She stared back at him blankly. 
> 
> “That’s what you should have done, Varric. It would have been better for everyone.” 
> 
> Inquisitor Cadash is dead, and who Maria becomes next is a mystery.

When she woke up, Maria Cadash entertained the notion briefly of staying right where she was. Let the world burn down around her ears and refuse to answer the call, the haunting one inside her mind, a figure wearing her father’s face. The whispered assurances that she would, indeed, get back up and take aim at Solas. 

At Solas, who couldn’t have betrayed her more thoroughly if he’d plunged a dagger into her back.

How could she take aim at anything any longer? While she slept, she became a crippled old woman. There wasn’t any coming back from that. She couldn’t be the vibrant, bright Inquisitor that led from the front with her bow in one hand and the spitting anchor in the other.

She couldn’t even be the laughing, wild child whose laugh haunted Ostwick’s harbors and tunnels. Not any more. 

She thought she could stay right where she was, but she couldn’t. Because her sister needed her, and Varric needed her. They urged her to keep walking through the fire, despite the burn. It was the same damn way they’d dragged her through the crossroads. If they didn’t need her, she’d simply lay back down and wait for the inevitable end of the world. If they didn’t need her, she could lay down her burden and rest. If she didn’t have to look into her sister’s eyes, Varric’s sad and terrible smile, she could let it all go.

If the world burned, they would too. 

So the world knocked trembling fingers against her door and she knew she would answer. She would either save the day or burn alive, it didn’t matter to laughing gods or the unseen masses. She would answer the call despite the whining protest of her muscles, the terrible tingling pain climbing up an arm that didn’t even exist anymore. Despite the icy frozen abyss that used to house her soul, she stood and she answered. She was simply a marionette on a string, forever bound to forces beyond her. A toy for one child to use against another. 

They could have her, let Solas and the Maker and Mythal and the Titans and Hakkon have her. Let all the gods, old and new, rip her to shreds with greedy fingers and gnashing teeth.

But they couldn’t have Varric. They couldn’t have Beatrix. They wouldn’t have all the people who truly loved her, who wouldn’t betray her.

If her life was enough to keep theirs safe, it was enough. There was still light in Varric’s eyes, still a laugh in Bea’s throat. They were alive inside, but the more she thought about what she had to do, what she’d become, the colder she felt.

They were alive, but inside her, Maria Cadash had only the abyss. 

 

The heat beat down horribly on the back of her neck and she impatiently brushed her hair away from her forehead. Below her, somewhere in the garden, she heard voices. They were low, indistinct. Then she saw a flash of plaidweave clambering over a roof from the corner of her eye. That was the signal, so she pushed herself up from leaning haphazardly on the railing.

She didn’t feel nervous. She didn’t feel much of anything. Hadn’t since they’d figured out how to pull Bea from the fire. It was, as if, now that the danger had passed, she didn’t need her emotions any longer.

She needed to be numb. Weapons and dolls don’t have thoughts or feelings. They do what their Makers ask of them.  

She didn’t have to wait long. The door opened in the room behind her, then clicked softly shut. She counted Varric’s quiet footsteps as he approached her, waited as he paused to gather himself in the doorway before he stepped out onto the low balcony. “I spoke to Ruffles, Maria. We need to talk.” 

“That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” She managed to pull the appropriate venom to color her words from somewhere. Bea would be proud that Maria was now as adept at making poisons as she was. She clutched the balcony’s railing tightly in her fist, refusing to turn around.

The voices below her petered out, fading into stunned and gleeful silence. 

“Damnit, Maria.” Just like that, Varric grabbed her and spun her to face him. His hand gripped her shoulder and she felt nausea rise up in her throat, a momentary fluttering of panic and revulsion that caused her to back into the railing hard enough to bruise her hip. Varric took his fingers away as quickly as if he’d been scalded.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice cracked, a sharp ding in her armor, one she couldn’t repair or hide fast enough. Varric couldn’t smooth away his raw devastation quickly enough either and he stared at her, the look of a man haunted by demons, by regrets. 

“I won’t.” He whispered softly, too softly to be heard down below. “I won’t, Princess. It’s alright.” 

She stared at him blankly, waiting. He just looked down at her and she saw indecision burst to life within him, threaten to derail this whole farce. It was just acting, or it should be, but maybe it wasn’t. Varric lied and told stories professionally, he should be able to do this. He needed to do this. 

He thought she was broken, too broken to withstand these lies curling like smoke around them. He was right, but for all the wrong reasons. She’d been too broken before he even started speaking, the words now were nothing, meant nothing. 

Just words into the abyss. 

“Maybe I should remind Josephine she works for me, not the other way around.” The words tasted sour on her cold lips. “I’m still the Inquisitor, aren’t I?” 

Varric let his hand fall limply to his side. “And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? That you’re still the Inquisitor.” His voice sounded right, which was all that mattered, sharp and biting. Their audience couldn’t see their faces.

If they could see Varric’s face like she could, they’d never be fooled. Varric’s face belonged to a man being flayed alive, the agony painted on every line from his temples to his trembling jaw. Had she been the one to take the lash to him, or was he doing it himself?

She didn’t even know anymore. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked for any of it. She tried to find that anger, the fury that she used to feel, tried to forge it into a blade like she had so many times. Her voice sounded right too, harsh  and steely, but she could see her dead expression in Varric’s eyes. “It’s the only way. I can’t let them take my sister, and you know it.” 

“So you’ll let them buy you?” Varric asked, appropriately incredulous. “Andrate’s ass, Maria. I never figured you’d whore yourself out to the highest bidder.” 

He winced when the hard word slipped out of his mouth. Necessary. The guild needed to believe, needed to think that he was just like them, that his Mistress was disposable, the same as any number of women discarded by them over the years. His words would only hurt if there was anything left to hurt. 

“That’s what happens when you slum it with the carta, Tethras.” Below her someone chuckled. Varric’s expression turned murderous and his hand reached for a crossbow that wasn’t there. She continued on, unfazed. “I take the work that comes my way. Can’t be choosy when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” 

“You’re better than this. Even if you let Orlais take control of the Inquisition, the Guild isn’t just going to let Beatrix go.” Varric’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “Maria, look at me.” 

His tone was angry, but when Maria looked into his eyes, all she saw was sorrow and fear, and something bright, beautiful. 

Varric’s heart, as golden as he was. 

“Josephine is going to offer my services to the guild.” She lied, turning back to the garden. “I’ll do their dirty work. They let Bea go. Simple.” 

The delight below them in the garden was palpable. 

“There’s nothing simple about it!” Varric protested. “This is madness. This isn’t you, this is…” 

“If you don’t like it, leave.” 

She tore her eyes away from him, looked sightlessly out over the garden. She could feel her heart in her ears, something unnameable churning in the abyss of her soul. Not enough to make her feel alive, but enough to remind her that life was sorrow and pain. 

“I loved you.” The way he said it, she knew there was no past tense there. “I loved you, and that’s why I couldn’t let you go. I’m sorry you can’t forgive me for not leaving you to die.”

This was off script, this was the truth. Shining and brilliant like the sun up above them. She stared back at him blankly. 

“That’s what you should have done, Varric. It would have been better for everyone.” 

There was that agonized expression again, and yes, this time she could take the blame for it. This was what happened when you came back from certain death. You came back as a blade to take everyone else with you.

“If you let me walk out this door, Maria, I’m not coming back. I can’t go down this path with you.” Varric didn’t know how true that was. Couldn’t know. Her path was through the fire, and always had been. Varric was too good, too beautiful for her to drag to hell behind her. There was no path for them, only the abyss. She turned back to the railing, turned her back on him. “Goodbye, Varric.” 

She waited to hear his receding steps, the click of the door. Instead, he moved closer to her, careful not to touch her skin as he slipped a piece of parchment into her jacket pocket. He leaned towards her ear, his breath warm against the lobe. 

“For now, Princess.” He whispered, ragged against her ear. Then he withdrew, leaving her cold even in the burning sunlight. 

The door clicked shut with a sudden finality. The voices below her were whispering like demons. She saw a dwarf take off, running, to spread the news. The Viscount of Kirkwall had abandoned his mistress, the Inquisitor planned to enslave herself to Orlais, Beatrix Cadash would be in their hands and Maria on their leash. A better outcome than they could have possibly hoped. 

The door opened behind her again and Josephine called her name. Maria turned from the garden, from the opulent, fragrant flowers and the sunlight. “Are we ready?” Maria asked tersely. 

“Yes, my lady.” Josephine said smoothly. “At your signal.” 

“Release my sister into the Orlesian guild’s custody.” Maria ordered, reaching trembling fingers into her pocket and grabbing the scrap of parchment. “And tell the Exalted Council I’m prepared to see them now.” 

“Yes, my lady.” Josephine vanished back out the door. Maria fumbled with the scrap of paper, clumsily unfolding it. 

In Varric’s bold handwriting was the name of an inn in Val Chevin. Maria took a deep breath, holding the scrap of paper to the lantern on the desk. She held onto the note until the flames licked her fingers, then she dropped it onto the marble floor and watched as it curled into ash. 

 

Cassandra was becoming  _ terrifyingly _ good at disobeying orders. Maria stepped out of her room, balancing the book containing the Inquisition’s history, legacy, in one hand while attempting to close the door behind her with her shoulder. 

“Allow me to assist.” Cassandra startled her, moving as if to take the book.

“Damnit, I can do it myself!” She swore, kicking the door hard enough  to make it slam behind her. She turned on Cassandra, fighting the urge to throw the book at her blasted head. “What are you doing here?” 

“I do not know what you are planning, but I refused to leave with the others.” Cassandra drew herself up to her full height. “I will not abandon you. The rumors they are bandying about…” 

“Fine.” Maria snapped. She didn’t want to talk about the rumors they’d started. She didn’t want to see the warm, genuine concern all over Cassandra’s face. “Fine, then. You can stay for this and then you’re going to follow the damn instructions I sent, are we clear?” 

Cassandra looked like she might revolt. “Varric left.” 

Two words, two words that could come horrifically close to illuminating the abyss that used to be her heart. Yes. She watched the Viscount’s caravan leave. She could swear even from her window, she could hear Bran complaining. “I know.” 

“I assume this is part of a plan? He did not abandon you?” 

Varric planned on her joining him as soon as she could. Then they’d make their way to Skyhold or Kirkwall, wherever they thought was safer. Kirkwall was close to Ostwick, and Beatrix would be snug and safe in either city, protected by sprawling cousin’s or Varric’s title, whatever she chose. Their greatest danger wouldn’t be the guild, it’d be her and the gods gnawing on her bones. 

“No.” Maria gritted her teeth together against the flash of pain, a phantom echo of the arm that died. “He did not. He knows what he’s doing, and so do I. This was the only way.” 

The only way to save Beatrix. Varric would never have abandoned her otherwise, would be here by her side until his last breath, even if the woman he’d fallen in love with died in the Crossroads, even if she’d been replaced by a tool. Varric held onto things too long, too tightly. It’s why he couldn’t let her die. 

“I will stay with you as you face the Council.” Cassandra clenched her fist stubbornly. “It was I who called the Inquisition. I who thrust you into this mess.” 

Well, she couldn’t argue that. She looked down at the book in her hand, silent, considering. Cassandra, too, would never leave. If Cassandra was a better liar, she’d have been told the whole plan from the beginning. 

She loved her too. Loved her as much as she loved Beatrix and Varric. She loved Cassandra laughing, caught between amusement and disapproval, telling her that history would either remember her as the woman who stood at the Inquisitor’s side, both loyal shield and friend,or they’d remember her as being led astray by a dwarven mad woman. 

“Cass… while I was unconscious I had a dream.” 

A perfect dream, at least for a little while. She choked on the swell of emotion, struggled to force it back into the blackness below. “There was a man there. He looked like my father and he said…” 

Cassandra waited, patient, head inclined down. Maria swallowed. “He said he set me on the path to Haven. There were others too, but I was the one… I’m the one that made it. He said he expected me to fail anyway, and I did.” 

“Did you?” Cassandra asked, frowning. “Do you truly believe that you have completely failed, my friend?” 

Everything was lost and she didn’t even know who she was any longer. Yes, she counted that as a failure. “He said he was sending me back.” 

Cassandra didn’t reel back in surprise, but her eyes burned with something almost like triumph. She nodded, quick and determined. “I knew. I knew it was you.” 

“It’s madness.” She could laugh at it if she knew how to laugh anymore. 

“Do you believe it?”

She didn’t want to. She absolutely didn’t want to, and she wouldn’t, except… she knew Fynn and her grandmother were real. She felt it in her bones, deep inside every trembling muscle. She knew them. 

“Yes.” She answered quietly. Yes, finally, she believed. Too late, unfortunately. The Maker had given her a quest she couldn’t possibly succeed at, one she’d almost definitely die trying to navigate. Inquisitor Cadash, mighty and victorious, may have been able to accomplish it, but the Inquisitor died in the crossroads. The Carta heiress she’d been before died at Haven. Before that, she’d been a lovestruck child, and that girl perished at Hercinia. 

Now she’d be a weapon, and weapons didn’t die, they just shattered. 

“I am with you. Allow me to accompany you to this council, and then… wherever you will go.” 

Into the abyss, and she wouldn’t take Cassandra either. The world needed the Seeker, needed her good heart and her courage. 

“You can come to the council. Then you’re going to follow your blasted instructions, Cass. Alright?” 

Cassandra looked as if she might argue before she nodded in grim determination, falling into step beside her as they walked. 

 

Cassandra gripped her sword tightly as they stalked toward the Council room, the arguments already in full swing. The crowd outside was packed tightly against the doors, as close as they could get, hoping to hear. Maria counted several pleased looking dwarves who cast appraising glances over her as they approached. Cassandra scowled in their general direction, but Maria ignored them.

She was glad they’d come. Glad they’d taken the bait and headed right for the distraction. It meant by the time they realized Bea slipped through their fingers, it’d be too late. 

Cassandra shoved the Council doors open and strolled in beside her. Josephine turned from her spot in front of the Council, meeting Maria’s gaze with a frown. “Inquisitor?” 

Inquisitor. Inquisitor Maria Cadash. They’d be writing that name down in history books for years. Assuming they had years, assuming any books survived the oncoming storm. 

Every head turned to her, eyes heavy on her face. Maria rose the book up in her arm, the pierced eye displayed proudly. “Should I assume you all now what this is?” Maria asked, holding it high over her head with her one arm. 

“A writ from Divine Justinia authorizing the formation of the Inquisition.” Maria began, her voice sounded loud and clear in the deathly quiet room. As if, Maria thought, she stood before a funeral pyre. 

Maybe she did. Maybe it was hers. Now all she needed to do was light it.  

She turned, taking in the crowd. “We pledged to close the breach, find those responsible, and restore order.” She paused, the words feeling unexpectedly heavy in her throat. She spun back around, seeking Cassandra’s face. She found it and the woman smiled slightly, nodding as if giving her permission to continue. She didn’t miss the gleaming pride in Cass’s dark eyes. 

Something within the abyss of her soul sparked. Maria choked on it, felt the warmth within her rise. 

“With or without anyone’s approval.” Maria continued, turning back to Arl Teagan and raising her chin up in a dare, the spark turning into defiance. 

You are only as small as you think you are, Zarra Cadash told her once when she was young. Maria Cadash was not small, not any longer. “It wasn’t a formally authorized treaty that saved Ferelden’s people.” 

She pointed her hand, accusingly, at Duke Cyril. “It wasn’t careful diplomacy that ended your inane civil war.” 

I never helped you, the man wearing her father’s face said. Good, she thought spitefully. I don’t need your help. 

“It was never about the organization.” It was her. It was her and the people she brought together, her team. It was luck and sweat, tears and screaming. It was blood in the Emprise and the dead burning in Crestwood. 

“It was about people doing what was necessary.” She stated firmly, sweeping her eyes across the table. 

Doing what was necessary. If she had no choice but to live, then dammit she would. But she’d live on her terms, she’d fight Solas her way. She’d keep the people she loved out of danger if it was the very last thing she’d do. 

If the Maker wanted a weapon, he’d get one. She hoped he was prepared for it. 

The book fell from her hand, landed with an alarming crash on the marble floor. Everyone stared at it, at her. She glared back at the Duke and the Arl, unashamed, unafraid. 

Varric already left with her sister, they were free. So was she. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a world to save. Again.” 

Josephine’s quill hovered, frozen, over her board. The whole room was so still she felt like she could shatter it with one well placed arrow. An arrow she’d never fire ever again.

She didn’t need her bow. She didn’t need her arrows. She would dive into the abyss herself with bloody knuckles and bruised flesh. 

She turned on her heel, the clack of her boots on the tile floor the only sound. She raised her hand over her shoulder dismissively. “Effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded.” 

Cassandra joined her at her flank like a steady shadow as the hall behind her descended into shocked gasps, protestations, cursing. 

“As always, I cannot decide if you are very brave or very foolish.” 

Weapons couldn’t be brave or foolish. Solas made her a weapon. She’d been brought back from the brink to be someone else’s. 

“At least you can’t decide.” She muttered darkly. Cass caught her remaining arm, squeezed tight. Maria flinched, tried to pull it out of her grip. 

“I would stay with you.” Cassandra dug her nails into Maria’s arm, the words a plea. “I am your shield sister, and I should be with you.” 

Not this time. “Stick to the plan Cass. Follow the instructions in my note, leave by the south gate, and go to Kirkwall.” She snarled. 

“Will I meet you there?” 

No. 

“Yes.” Maria lied. “Now go.” 

 

Cassandra and Sera were too bad at lying to be told the plan, but the others knew what they were doing and why. They all thought they’d meet in Kirkwall, leaving the logistics of disbanding the Inquisition to Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. 

The only one who steadfastly refused to believe her was Cole, because he saw into the abyss of her heart. The boy waited for her in her rooms as Maria shed the bright red jacket as quickly as she could, ripping some of the buttons in her haste. They clattered to the marble floor, the sound too loud in the silent room. Cole, helpfully, threw a darker shirt over her head. It was still too damn snug around her breasts, but it would do. 

“Your hair. Fire in the crowd.” Cole muttered, handing her a cloak. Yeah, between the hair and the missing arm she was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Still, she hated to wear a cloak in the heat. Regardless, she allowed Cole to tie it around her neck with deft fingers before he nodded. 

“Are they all gone?” Maria asked numbly, touching the hilt of the dagger on her hip with her left hand. She’d been alright with a blade, in a pinch. It wasn’t her bow, though. 

“Yes. He leaves the palace hollow, hands empty. He came bearing gifts.” Cole whispered. “Your name is sweet on his lips, loved, lyrical. You should go to him.”  

“Cole.” She warned tartly, turning back to servant’s door. 

“You don’t want to be soft. Not anymore. Want blood on my fingers, skin made of glass shards. A creature to make the gods tremble in fear.” 

She bit back a scream, barely. It wouldn’t be fair to Cole. Her hand paused on the hidden door, a memory trembling inside her. The servant’s door had been where Lottie snuck the midwife through for the baby that died inside her when the anchor killed Inquisitor Cadash.  

“But you didn’t die.” Cole pleaded, following her anxiously. “I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t get to come back the same after shit like this, kid. You come back, but you come back wrong. That’s the price.” Her voice sounded lower, deader. Like the corpses in the mire were talking through the water, lifting bony fingers to drag her down into blackness. 

Inquisitor Cadash died screaming, died blazing, died trying not to die. The silent deadly thing that took her place took the narrow staircase like a shadow, pausing at the bottom to listen. She heard nothing, so she opened the door. 

It was wrenched the rest of the way open out of her hand and she went for the knife like second nature. But soft fingers reached for her wrist, stopping just short of touching her skin. The tanned fingers darker in the shadows. 

Dorian Pavus didn’t follow the fucking plan either. He had his staff illuminated, the dim light throwing all three of their shadows into the wall. She stared thoughtlessly into his warm, sad eyes until the word finally came to her lips. “Why?”

“My dear sweet Cadash, you have a look in your eye that is frankly terrifying and concerning.” Dorian began grimly, taking a step back to allow her to stumble out of the staircase. “Do you really believe we love you so little that we’d allow you to stagger through this yourself?”

“Did it work?” If he was here, she was at least going to be reassured that the rest slipped the net.

“Sera left to return to Skyhold as soon as she led the guild to your impressive display. Varric and Beatrix are on their way to Val Chevin in that luxorious coach of his, Bull and the chargers are heading to Val Royeaux before moving on, Rainier planned to slip into Ferelden then up to Jader and take ship from there.  Vivienne needed to stop in Montsimmard anyway, apparently, and Cassandra stated explicitly she wouldn’t leave without hearing it from your lips so I do hope you dealt with that.” Dorian waved her forward, falling into step beside her. “Cole, of course, refused to leave you, which confirmed we’re quite right to be worried out of our minds.” 

“Look in her eyes. Haunted. Hollow. I know my sister like I know my own mind, and she’s not okay.” Cole repeated softly. “She begged him to stay with you, but he couldn’t.” 

It was like tearing open a wound over and over again. She bit back the pain, glaring up at Dorian. “So you came.” 

“Of course I did.” Dorian smiled, soft, sad. “And I had a perfectly adequate coach of my own to take. Now I’ll be roughing it in the countryside, again, and you won’t even appreciate my suffering.” 

Maria froze, shook her head mutely.

“I will not leave you.” Dorian seethed proudly. “No matter what, I will not leave you until you are yourself again.” 

A small voice inside her whispered she would never be herself again, even as she followed the proud line of Dorian’s back through the maze below Halamshiral.

Inquisitor Cadash was dead, and she couldn’t come back. 


	24. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric grieves what may have been while slipping out of Halamshiral with the Inquisitor's sister.

 

Varric couldn’t help looking over his shoulder when he left his heart on the balcony. Even with her eyes dull and hopeless, despite her slumped shoulders and the jagged edges of her broken heart bleeding all over the balcony, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. As beautiful as the woman climbing ladders in the mountain pass to throw herself at the breach in Haven. He’d thought her a survivor then, and he’d been right. 

It cut him to the core to think she’d lost that will to fight now when she needed it more than ever. 

His gut screamed to go back, to throw himself at her feet like a knight from a story, to kiss his way over those burdened shoulders and up her neck until she smiled again. He barely beat the urge away, remembering how she flinched from his touch, the way she pulled back into herself as if she couldn’t bear it. He would touch her again, but not now. He’d wait until she was ready, until she didn’t feel like a prisoner in a body that had nearly burned alive, that had betrayed her as absolutely as Solas did when it refused to hold onto the child she wanted to give him.

She didn’t look over her shoulder for him, her eyes remained resolutely pointed forward towards the only path she could see. 

His stomach churned, mind whispering that if he left her now, he’d never see her again. She’d be as lost to him as if she’d died in the graveyard of mirrors. These would be the last words he ever spoke to her, lies designed to make a bunch of nug-brained fools believe she stood alone and fragile. As if a woman who walked through fire the way she did could ever be fragile. As if a thousand people wouldn’t fall on their blades for her.

He believed in her, believed she would come through despite the shattered look in her eyes. He had to keep believing in her or else he couldn’t believe in anything. 

He nodded to Ruffles as he left. She remained ignorant of the plan, mostly because she wouldn’t like it. She thought they could negotiate their way out of it, Cullen advocated for fighting their way out. “Nightingale getting everyone into the council room?” He asked as he walked. 

“Yes.” Ruffles twisted her quill anxiously. “I… I was told to wait for the Inquisitor’s signal.” 

“Go in and get it then.” Varric muttered darkly, head down, pacing away. 

 

“I do hope you know what you’re doing.” Dorian muttered grimly as they hid in the shadows by the cells. “Cassandra is  _ seething _ . I certainly heard something about ripping your good bits off.” 

“Good, she’s probably doing half the job of selling the lie.” Varric tried to keep his voice calm, level. They watched the transfer of custody happen, saw the Inquisition guards leave, but there were still far too many people in those cells for Varric to feel comfortable with. If some of them didn’t leave, soon to make their way to the hearing rooms, they were going to have to move to plan B. Plan B involved the Bull’s Chargers, so he was reasonably certain it would work. Less certain it wouldn’t draw undue attention despite how attractive Maria’s distraction was. 

He couldn’t wait much longer and risk Bea emerging relatively unscathed either. He just hoped if it came to it, she’d whip that blade out of her boot and cause enough of a ruckus for them to move in and take the small army down there out.

It amused him to think that the guild was that  _ frightened _ of little Beatrix Cadash that they needed a over a dozen guards and three of the most boring and illustrious deshyrs to contain her. There was a story there, a good one. Nearly as good as the tiny Champion of Kirkwall staring down the Arishok with nothing but her wicked grin and a bloody stripe across her nose. 

The thought of Hawke nearly unmoored him. They’d get nice and soused after this and he’d cry on her shoulder while ruminating on how fucking terrible the world was. After they got out of this mess, after he figured out a way to start mending Maria’s broken pieces. Maybe Hawke could figure out a way to fix the hollow, haunted look in Maria’s eyes when she told him he  _ should _ have left her to die. 

Maker, he just wanted to go home, Maria in tow, and forget all of this. 

“Laughing.” Cole whispered darkly. “No escape. Break her in like a stubborn mule.” 

“Yeah, we’re going to need to go with plan B here soon, Varric.” Bull began darkly, tracing his thumb down the wicked edge of his greatsword. 

Varric almost said go, almost gave the order to summon the Chargers. He stopped  short when shadows climbed up the steps, laughing. The laughter sounded just like Bartrand’s, like all the old men laughing at his mother’s funeral, telling his father he could find a younger one to warm his bed. 

He held up his palm as the three deshyr’s left, accompanied by six or so of their muscle. That left… nine? They could handle nine with reasonably little noise and excitement. Beatrix Cadash in a fair fight could probably take nine too. Maria certainly could. 

“I think Plan A will suffice.” Rainier growled with vicious satisfaction, readying his shield. 

Good, if Varric was leaving Maria as a distraction he’d like it have a damn purpose. 

The cells they left Bea in were empty, but Varric heard cruel laughter from further back. He picked up his pace as they approached a larger chamber further in. He didn’t need to look to see what it was full of, he knew. What was the point of a good dungeon without various bloodstained torture equipment? 

A male dwarf and a female dwarf were both looking, amused, at a figure on the ground. Varric heard low chuckles from the corners of the room and the male dwarf stepped to the side just far enough for Varric to get a good look at Bea. 

She knelt in front of them, lip bruised and bloody, but grinning madly with teeth turned pink. The man’s hand gripped her long dark hair, yanked it back so Bea eyes were forced up at him. The motion caused Bea’s sight to slip past, to fasten on his eyes for a fraction of a second. Her grin broadened.

They tied her hands behind her back, but you’d never know it by the way she held her head like an empress. As proud and regal as her sister, the similarity enough to make Varric’s heart stutter. The man with his fist in her fair growled down at her.“Your mouth isn’t as pretty as your sister’s, but if you won’t talk, we can make use of it.” 

“Careful.” Bea warned with a flutter of her eyelashes, miming genuine concern. “I’m sure losing your prick wouldn’t be as unfortunate as your face is, but I’ve been known to bite.” 

“Bite his prick and we’ll make sure you lose your arm too.” The woman snarled. 

Bea’s laugh, mocking and vicious, echoed in the small space. The two dwarves in front of her shared a glance before they looked down at Bea and tugged her hair roughly again.

“What’s so funny, rat?” The man rumbled ominously. 

Bea didn’t get a chance to answer him before the crossbow bolt slammed into the back of his skull. Before anyone could react, a second one send the woman to her knees, clutching the bolt through her chest. 

The rest of the battle was laughably efficient and quick. Dorian’s lighting took several dwarves down, Bull, Cole, and Rainier dove past him into the fray. They were used to fighting red templars, demons, and blood magic. A bunch of hired muscle was basically giving them soggy paper to cut through at this point. 

The last one hadn’t quite fallen to his knees yet and Varric already had Bea off the ground. Even in the short length of the battle, she managed to slip one of the ropes around her thin wrists. Varric sighed when he saw the rope burn, shot her a beleaguered look. 

“I thought I may have wanted to help.” She shrugged unapologetically, beginning to unwrap the other wrist, then giving up impatiently and diving for the blade in her boot. Beyond the blood spattering her, none of which seemed to be her own, her bruised lip, and her mussed hair she looked completely uninjured. 

“Nice bloody lip, Mittens.” Varric remarked neutrally, bringing fingertips to her cheek and tipping her head to the side gently to get a better look at it. “Someone hit you pretty hard.” 

“One of the deshyrs when I asked about his wife and if she still preferred elves in her bed.” Bea admitted gleefully. “You should have seen his face.” 

Rainier chuckled into his gauntlet and Varric tried not to smile himself. “We’ll get some elfroot on it.” 

“Stop fretting.” Bea stretched and rolled her shoulders. “I’ve gotten worse than this in bed.” 

“Atta girl.” Bull said fondly, tousling Bea’s hair as he moved past. “I’m taking the boys and heading out, Varric. You good?” 

“See you in Kirkwall, Tiny.” Varric met Rainier’s eyes and jerked his head over his shoulder. “You too. If you make it back before us, please try to prevent Hawke from flying off the handle. Enlist Spitfire to assist.” 

“I’d hurry.” Rainier muttered darkly. “Once they figure out what a mess this has been, I’ll be hard pressed to stop any of them from coming after you.” 

True enough, but Varric followed Hawke into too many disasters to believe her own peculiar brand of bad luck wouldn’t just fuck this situation up more. As much as he wouldn’t mind her sunny optimism, he’d take his chances. 

Rainier pushed past Bull and Dorian. The Qunari rested a large hand on Dorian’s jaw and looked down at him fondly. Dorian smiled up, placing his hand over the larger one. “You could make a man jealous, Dorian. The things you’d do for her.”  Bull rumbled deeply. 

“If it were you, we would indeed have something to worry about. You and your penchant for curvaceous redheads.” Dorian teased fondly. “Do try not to feel too put out. I’ll certainly endeavor to make it up to you.” 

“I’ll remember that promise.” Bull growled savagely, crashing his lips against Dorian’s. Varric looked away quickly, coughing awkwardly into his sleeve. Bea tipped her head to the side inquisitively, as if trying to calculate some interesting logistics. 

“Maybe I should go with the mage. He’s got a coach too, right?” Bea asked, spinning to him. “You should stay with my sister. She needs you.” 

“Unfortunately, the Tevinter Magister is always suspected of any number of ills. Casting the evil eye at cattle, eating infants, all sorts of nonsense. I can confidently expect to be stopped and searched at least three times on a good day.” Dorian squeezed Bull’s shoulder tenderly. “Go, you great savage. I’ll see to our girl.” 

Bull nodded, silent, stalking out of the chamber. Bea still looked at Varric, her expression torn. “Varric, I know my sister like I know my own mind. She isn’t okay. Not by a long shot.” 

“Mittens, we know.” Varric gripped Bea’s elbow, pulling her into the hallway. “She’ll recover from this, but we can’t risk losing you. That’d be a bit much on top of everything else that’s gone wrong.” 

“I’m staying too.” Cole whispered harshly from behind them, venom dripping from his words. “They hurt her.” 

“We’ll see her through, my favorite falsely accused murderess.” Dorian reassured gallantly with a half bow “And we’ll bring her to Val Chevin. You have our word.” 

“Sparkler… try not to touch her.” The words felt hollow in his mouth. Dorian frowned deeply, fingers tightening on his staff. “She… hell if I know. She’s been through a lot.” 

“Came back wrong.” Cole muttered. “Came back broken, feral. Merciless and restless in a body not her own.” 

Varric didn’t want to ask, but he didn’t have to. Dorian turned, eyes piercing. “You always had trouble hearing her before, Cole. Has that changed?” 

“Birds against the sky.” Cole whispered. “But the light is gone now and she screams. She’s so loud. It’s just her at the edge of the abyss. I won’t let her fall. I won’t.”

 

“Bran, when I said we’re leaving, I may not have been clear enough.” Varric felt his patience fraying like a rope as he stared into the idiot’s face. Where, he thought uselessly, was Fenris to scare the piss out of the man when Varric needed him? “But I’m leaving with or without you.” 

He should have known if anyone was going to cause a kink in the plan, it would be Bran. The man seemed absolutely loathe to leave the Orlesian court. It was positively shameful for a Free Marcher. Bran opened his mouth, again, probably to spout off something about luggage and Varric lost it. 

“Right.” He huffed, pounding one fist on the side of the carriage closest to the lanky human with the reins in his hand. “Get going, regardless of whether or not the Seneschal gets on his horse.” 

He paused before wrenching his door open, letting his eyes flick up to the palace looming above them. He thought, for a heartbeat, he saw a flicker of red in the windows. He searched them again, eyes narrowed. 

Yes. There, a small figure with a distinct silhouette in a tunic red enough to match her hair. He froze, uncertain for a moment. He could risk sending the carriage off without him inside, but the moment he reappeared the guild would guess who  _ actually _ left in his hired coach. Bea would say it was an acceptable risk, but Maria wouldn’t. Maria would do anything for them. 

She’d break her own heart to pieces for them. She’d let Varric break it. 

He remembered coming into this same courtyard, giddy with delight from his assorted gifts to present to his lover. Now, he was leaving without the one thing he’d come for, the only thing worth having. 

He couldn’t even wave to her and chance someone seeing it. He turned, stiff, from the silent ghost in the window and wrenched open the gilt door to be confronted with her eyes in another woman’s face. 

“I still think someone else could have done this.” Bea folded her arms stubbornly over her chest and reclined against the curtained window. “I could have left with that Madame Vivienne.” 

“I carried you out of Haven and left her behind.” Varric sighed wearily, shutting his eyes against the pounding in his head, slicing off Bea’s piercing gaze. “Who else could she possibly trust to handle you?” 

Bea snorted derisively, tensing slightly as they passed the guard stations. But Varric got waved through, he knew he would, especially with all the other nobles running to see Maria fall from grace. Nothing like a hero being defeated to draw a crowd of the most arrogant and pompous people you wished you didn’t know. 

Varric hated to wish for Blondie and another explosion, but if it was going to happen again, he’d say smuggle the good people out of Halamshiral and let the rest burn. It seemed the perfect place for it. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Varric opened one eye, took in the woman that somehow looked so much smaller curled up into a ball in the corner of the carriage. She wasn’t pointing those gray eyes at him anymore, which was better, but he didn’t particularly care for the way she morosely picked at the threads on her breeches either. “Context, Mittens?” He asked mildly. 

Conversation was good. Conversation might stop him from beating his head against the carriage door until he stumbled into unconsciousness. 

“I’m sorry I’m dragging you away from her again. I’m sorry you have to clean up my mess. I’m sorry about the baby. I’m sorry I couldn’t fucking do anything.” She threw her hand out, violently, hitting the cushion hard before she dropped her forehead onto her knees, wrapping her arms around them.

“I should have told you and Maria what I was doing. I almost did… Isabela nearly talked me into it while they were making you Viscount. I was just so fucking frightened to see her again and I couldn’t… that Viscount’s mistress shit made me see red.” The words were clear, despite being muffled into her knees. 

“You’re not the only one. I thought Maria would pitch Bran off the balcony before going through with it. We’d have never done it, except…” They wanted a baby, and her unwanted title would protect it. “It was my idea. A shitty idea, really, assuming either of us could go nine months without a disaster.” 

His voice cracked on the last word and he couldn’t hide it in time with a desperate, rueful laugh. Maker, he’d wanted… he wanted her whole, he wanted their child in both of her damn arms, and honestly, that wasn’t that much, was it? 

He still had her, he reminded himself sternly. That was more than enough and he meant it when he said it. He fucking meant every word, hadn’t lied when he told Solas he’d pay any cost twice over to have her. 

Still, he couldn’t get rid of a heartbreaking picture. Maria standing in the Viscount’s library, right hand covering a laughing smile as she watched him teach a little girl to read a story about a brave young woman who fell from the sky to save the world. Maria’s left hand marked her own place in a book and rain lashed against the windows, but they were safe and warm and…

He didn’t realize a tear escaped until Bea’s careful fingers brushed it away. Tears glistened in her eyes too, smearing black eyeliner. She closed the narrow space between them, laying her forehead on his shoulder. Her shoulders heaved with one silent sob, then another. 

Varric leaned his head on the handle of his crossbow, letting the angry tears come. The sorrow, the impotent rage, the self-recrimination. He bathed in it, wallowed in it, the same way he’d drink himself stupid the second he had Maria back in his sight.

Then, they’d get their shit together and figure out what to do next. Solas wanted to end the world, and Varric was almost of a mind to let it burn, but there were other people to think about. Bea’s shaking form next to him, Hawke and Broody with their little fledgling, Spitfire and Hero with Bean. Daisy and Junior, Rivaini, Choir Boy and his own little girl. 

Besides, he owed Solas a solid right hook for everything they’d been through.

 

As dusk settled, the coach pulled off into a small inn off the Imperial Highway. In the name of deception, he rented rooms just for Bran and himself, but managed to snag a room with two beds. He deposited Bea in one and scoped out the other for himself. 

Mittens fell asleep nearly as soon as her head hit the pillow, exhaustion finally keeling her over. She curled up small when she slept, almost a tight ball, like a damn cat. Varric wanted to sleep, wanted to see if maybe tonight he’d find out he’d just been trapped in some sort of shitty nightmare. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, he sat and pulled out his journal, looking blankly at the half written page in front of him.

 

_ The princess cocked her head inquisitively to the side, approaching the dragon with light and sure steps. The monster raised its milky eyes, nostrils flaring at her careful approach. The knight behind her made a choked sound of fear, armor rattling as he shook in his sturdy metal boots. _

_ But the princess was brave, even when she was afraid, and she raised her head to look into the old dragon’s blind eyes. “I am on a quest, Messere Dragon. I’m afraid I must retrieve a sword lost here some time ago.”  _

_ The dragon sniffed the air around her, and if a dragon could be curious, this one appeared to be. The dragon chuckled, then coughed, little puffs of smoke whirling past the golden haired princess. She politely didn’t mention them, smoothing clammy palms over her pants as the dragon drew itself up. _

_ “You smell as someone I knew, long ago.” The dragon rumbled. “Peace, child. Who has sent you?”  _

_ “My mother, the queen.” The girl’s silver eyes flashed with steely determination. “She said you owe her a great favor and that you would be more than happy to repay it.” _

_ The dragon paused, as if considering the girl’s words. The girl bit her lip once, before plowing on. “My mother also said you still owe her ten gold, Messerre, from the last game of Wicked Grace she played here.”  _

 

Varric’s eyes misted with tears again and he went to rip the page from the journal. A fairy story, his first attempt at writing one. He’d spun several elaborate ones from thin air for Bean, but nothing like this. Nothing like the ode that began whispering around his head the moment Maria told him he’d be a father. 

He smoothed the crinkled corner he’d grabbed instead of ripping the page free and sighed, closing the journal and his eyes.  __


	25. The Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t win.” The admission burned her tongue. “I can’t. I won’t. No matter what happens, no matter what comes next, you’re right. I’ll end up in front of him. With no hidden magic power, no arm, no bow, nothing.” 
> 
> The abyss swelled inside her, and she finally recognized it for what it was. Defeat. 
> 
> Maria admits that she doesn't believe she'll win.

Dorian Pavus missed his real calling. Necromancer, mage, magister, rebel lord, fashion inspiration, he could manage them all, but it wasn’t what he was best at. No, what the man excelled at was driving Maria crazy with his nannying. 

“Dorian.” She hoped his name sounded as venomous as a swear word, because she was quickly beginning to think of it like one as she splashed cold water on her face. “If you try to make me rest here one more second, the least of our problems is going to be the mountain of trouble I bailed on in Halamshiral.” 

She raised her eyes to his in challenge, blinking the water from her eyelashes. “That is the second time you’ve vomited since we started this miserable trek.” Dorian accused, narrowing his eyes. “By Andraste’s knickers, I don’t even remember the last thing you ate and kept down.” 

She thought it was a piece of bread before their second to last disastrous voyage into the crossroads, which would have been… over a day ago? Her body demanded food, but the thought of actually putting anything in her mouth made her want to vomit. Again.

“I’m fine.” She had to be, there wasn’t any room for weakness. Not anymore. 

“Fasta vass. You are  _ certainly _ not fine.” Dorian’s piercing eyes swept over her, leaving a scorching trail over her skin. “If I’d have known this journey by foot would be so trying for you, I would have insisted on another plan. If you would have just admitted how awful you felt…” 

Dorian missed the humor in his statement. She’d been hiding how the anchor affected her for three years so as not to frighten anyone, why in the world would Dorian think she’d admit how shitty she felt now? But that didn’t bother her, not really. She knew pain, grown used to the way her arm ached even on the best days. During her tenure as Inquisitor, she faced injury the way she faced diplomatic events, with a grim and fatalistic determination. She couldn’t even count the number of broken bones, burns, slashes, and gashes she’d had to have healed and stitched up. 

The aching muscles of her entire right side served as a great distraction from the void where her heart used to be. Served to keep her from laying down and just shutting her eyes. Damnit, she felt exhausted, body and soul. It didn’t help that Dorian effectively prevented her from pursuing her dream of just… vanishing into thin air. Cole would have allowed her, but Dorian seemed determined to drag her by her hair to Val Chevin. 

And yet… she couldn’t find the energy to slip Dorian and take the countryside on her own. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m just tired.” The understatement of the age. Once, Zarra told her she’d been weary in her very bones. A younger Maria, a careless and reckless young woman, laughed at an old lady’s complaints. Maria wished she didn’t need to eat her own words now.

“We’ve put enough distance between us and Halamshiral. Surely we can give you a moment to close your eyes. It isn’t wise to travel in broad daylight regardless, since you’re now as much a pariah as I am.” Dorian wheedled, leaning over and acting as if he meant to place a gentle hand on her lower back. Maria stiffened and Dorian paused, unsure, before letting his hand drop limply to his side. “Perhaps we can rest in that lovely looking barn with the dirty and smelly animals. It sounds utterly horrific and like a perfect way to avenge yourself upon me for ruining what I’m sure was an absolutely masterful plan of self-destruction.” 

“I was not…” 

Before she could finish, Cole appeared with a lump of something brown in one hand and his soothing voice trickling like the stream over the rocks beneath them. “Safer without me. Let the gods tear my bones apart in their war, but let them be safe.” 

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction, begging her to argue the point more. Maria didn’t rise to the bait, taking the odd brown lump from Cole’s hand and sniffing it experimentally. 

“Ginger.” Cole smiled. “Like…”

Like the cookies Lottie brought her after the incident with the cabbage stew. Maria swallowed against the bile rising back up her throat. Lottie who’d been spying on her the whole time, Lottie who seemed so fucking happy that Maria was expecting a child. Maria remembered Lottie stroking her damp hair back kindly and insisted she’d feel better if she just ate the cookies she offered. 

“I’m sorry.” She heard Cole start to panic, saw him glare down at the root in his hand. “I meant to help, I wanted to help.” 

“It’s alright sweetheart.” Maria’s voice sounded dull to her own ears. Cole meant well. Cole always meant well. 

She didn’t have the heart any longer to argue with Dorian when he steered her into the barn, hiding them in an empty hay loft. She blinked slowly up at the golden light streaming through the doors and fought the urge to sob until she finally allowed exhaustion to overwhelm her. 

 

_ Fynn’s fingers covered her eyes because he couldn’t trust her not to peek. He had his other arm around her waist as they moved forward slowly, guiding her through the forge. Maria laughed breathlessly as they staggered forward awkwardly. He chuckled ruefully against her neck, pressing a warm teasing kiss just below her ear.  _

_ “Right.” Maria stopped when her hips hit the table in front of her. “Now, if you’re planning to bend me over and…”  _

_ “Maybe later.” Her neck prickled at the veiled promise and desire bloomed under her skin, curled into liquid heat in her belly. Instead of removing his hand from her eyes immediately, he nuzzled into the empty hollow of her neck. His beard tickled her sensitive flesh and made her knees go weak when he pulled her tighter to his chest.  _

_ It had been three months. Three glorious, perfect months. Three months sneaking into Fynn’s bed any night she could, three months valiantly trying, and failing, to teach him to shoot a bow. Three months perched on his tables, watching him work, letting their conversation fall like easy, gentle rain. Even their arguments, and Maker they still had them, seemed to be part of a glorious pattern where she always ended up in his arms, in his bed, laughing while he worshipped her like she was an offering to an old god.  _

_ “Ready?” He asked against the lobe of her ear.  _

_ “I’m always ready.” She purred, rubbing against him like a cat. He laughed again, pulling his hand from her eyes, leaving her to blink away the golden light streaming through his windows owlishly. She needed to do so several times before she fully comprehended the shining sleek blades on the table. A perfect pair, the metal bright and polished, an elaborate and smooth ivory handle curling delicately on each. Worked on the handles, lovingly, were her initials the way she signed them sometimes when she wanted to look important.  _

_ “Bea is going to be so jealous.” Maria reached for them covetously, giggling in delight as she turned one over in her hand, catching sight of their reflections in the metal. _

_ “Magpie stole the prototype last week when she nearly caught us snogging in the courtyard.” Fynn admitted. “I couldn’t even ask you to get it back and risk ruining the surprise.”  _

_ She laughed, delighted, placing one blade down and picking up the twin. “I can’t even get it back now, she lost it in a card game days ago. I wondered where she got it from.” _

_ She hummed a note as she finished speaking, flicking her wrist to test the way the blade felt leaving her hand, caught again in her careful fingers. “Well, Dunhark, I think this may be your finest work, but if you expect me to pay for them…”  _

_ “I’ll accept an I owe you. This time.” He teased fondly. “I hope you like them.”  _

_ He was so proud of them, and he had every right to be. They were the finest daggers she’d handled in her life. She turned her head to tell him so, but the gleaming emotions in his eyes stopped her short.  _

_ Instead of thank you, something else came out. Something altogether more vulnerable and honest than she meant to be. “I love you.” _

_ She’d never said that before, not to a man. Not to anyone except her grandmother and Bea. But seeing the childish wonder on Fynn’s face nearly made it worth the flush of cringeworthy embarrassment. Nearly. _

_ “Right. Didn’t… didn’t mean to just blurt that out.” She laughed, it sounded too high for her ears. She wondered, panic stricken, if Nanna needed someone to leave the Free Marches for a couple weeks.  _

_ “I’m not quite sure I heard you.” Fynn’s voice rumbled with suppressed laughter. “I think you should repeat it.”  _

_ “Oh you ass.” She squirmed against him, trying to free herself from his tight grip. He loosened his arms just enough for her to slide away, but he immediately caged her against the table instead. His strong, rough fingers pried the blade out of her hand and sat it gently beside its mate behind them.  _

_ His eyes were the ocean, the emotions shifting behind them like the tide, his expression devastatingly somber. “Me too.”  _

_ She wanted to laugh. Instead, she captured his face in her hands and crashed his lips to hers. In a moment, everything else dropped away. The forge, the fire behind her, the blades on the table, vanished into thin air. It was just them, always just them.  _

_ “Say it again.” Fynn demanded, popping the buttons on her coat and tugging it off impatiently.  _

_ “Your turn.” She challenged with a breathless laugh. Fynn’s arms circled her waist, hefting her easily onto the edge of the low table and slipping into the space between her spread thighs.  _

_ “I love you, you foolish mad woman.” He growled against her neck, both of his hands tearing her shirt from her breeches and over her head. It landed somewhere behind them and she desperately hoped it wasn’t in the fire. “I love you so much, I can hardly stand it. Now say it again.”  _

_ She knew that feeling. “I love you.” She pressed her lips to his temple as he pulled at the laces of her bustier, freeing her breasts to rest in his solid hands. She whined, hips pushing up against his as he dipped his head to taste her skin, to drive her to distraction with his greedy mouth. One arm circled her waist, the other covered her neglected breast. She tipped her head back, groaning in desperate need. _

_ She straightened her head again to look down at him, to urge him on, but it wasn’t him her eyes found. Over Fynn’s head, a man stood in the doorway to the shop. His eyes were greedy, predatory, fixed on the hand covering her naked breast over Fynn’s shoulder. She froze as effectively as if she’d had a bucket of ice water dumped over her.  _

_ Fynn’s father’s smirked at her while he pulled the door silently shut behind him and it made her blood run cold. “Fynn, Fynn stop.” She didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer. She dropped her eyes quickly, bringing her arms up over her chest as Fynn looked up, instantly concerned, his hands dropping from her skin. _

_ His concern turned to fury in a second, the moment her heard his father’s dark chuckle. “Lad, I must admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”  _

_ She’d never been more humiliated in her life. Her skin crawled with the weight of the older man’s appreciative gaze and she felt a burn in the back of her throat. In an instant, Fynn pulled her off the table. He settled her discarded coat around her shoulders and she tugged it tightly around her body while Fynn rounded on his father. _

_ “Get out.” He snarled, blocking her with his bulk.  _

_ “Nothing to be embarrassed of, boy.” The man chuckled again. “She is a pretty thing, even for Carta.”  _

_ This was the kind of talk she could handle if she just had her fucking shirt on, if she had her bow on her back. If she…  _

_ “GET OUT!” Fynn roared and Maria winced. It didn’t matter, not any more. They’d been caught, which was always bound to happen. And there’d be consequences, which she knew. She’d known and…  _

_ When she looked up from the floor, it wasn’t Fynn in front of her. It was Varric, his eyes bright and shining, his hand pulling her forward as all the nobles broke into scandalized whispers, the glittering ballroom around them like something from a dream. Maybe a nightmare. The silk of her dress clung to her curves and she felt as naked as she did that day in Fynn’s shop.  _

_ It didn’t matter if she saved the world a hundred times, there’d always be people who thought of her as a Carta rat luring their good men into sin.  _

_ “I’ll stay like this forever, Princess.” He warned, his hand warm under hers. And he would, he would because Varric loved her. Varric, steady as a rock, unmovable, unshakable.  _

_ “I love you.” She whispered against the tears. “Tell me you know that.”  _

_ He grinned at her before he spoke his dare. “Prove it.”  _

 

“Cadash.” Dorian called, loudly. “I have been informed by Cole that these... beasts in here require milking twice a day, and that we’ll be frightening several peasants if we don’t move on soon.” 

She flinched away from his yell, raising her hand to her head. Or, at least, she tried to. She forgot she didn’t have a hand there, remembered it all over again, a wave of despair crashing over her before she even opened her eyes. 

“Still dreaming.” Cole whispered. “Even without the mark. Varric is waiting. Always waiting.” 

“Interesting.” She didn’t need to open her eyes to know Dorian stroked his mustache as he looked down at her with the same expression he gave books that held particularly complex problems.

“Cows.” She stated firmly to distract him. “The beasts are called cows. They make milk, which gets made into those awful cheeses you like.” 

“The left hand cries.” Maria opened her eyes, looked directly up into Cole’s pensive frown. “She remembers an unscarred face, but it’s been so long. Hands shake when she pulls me close, hat falls off. I’m too late, but she doesn’t care. We were girls once, long ago. The world made sense then. It doesn’t now. Am I a pawn in someone's game? Have I always been?” 

“He hears you better now, apparently. So welcome to the ‘have Cole broadcast your thoughts aloud in embarrassing moments club.’ Perhaps we’ll finally hear some of your naughty fantasies.”

“That’s not me.” Maria propped herself up out of the hay, narrowing her eyes as she swept them across the barn. “Cole, who is it?” 

Cole frowned even more deeply. “I… it’s gone now. It was hard to hear.” 

Maria heard a crow caw from outside and waited another heartbeat before she pushed her aching body back up and brushed golden straw from her hair. “We should be going anyway.” 

Dorian paused, staring at her thoughtfully before turning to Cole. “Be a dear and see if outside is clear. We’ll be along in a moment.” 

Cole nodded with determination, hurrying off and sliding down the loft ladder. Dorian sighed, kneeling next to Maria and reaching out his hand as if he would take hers. He paused above her skin, meeting her eyes. “May I?” 

Her skin prickled but she nodded anyway and Dorian slowly engulfed her one remaining hand between both of his. His palms seared her skin, made her want to pull away. She stared at the place where they were joined in something like mute horror. 

“Do you have a plan, Maria?” He asked softly. “Beyond ‘be utterly insufferably noble and cause my friends to develop ulcers’, do you have any idea what you’ll do now?” 

She didn’t answer. Dorian sighed, bringing their hands to his forehead and closing his eyes. “My dear, do you know what Bull said when you awoke? He looked right at me and said you had the look in your eyes he remembered from Seheron, the way people just gave up. I called him a fool, declared you weren’t one to surrender blindly to circumstance. And yet… the moment I saw you intended to send us all from you, I knew he was right.”

Bull saw the abyss nobody else wanted to see. Bull always saw what nobody else wanted to see. Bull knew she’d been starving after the spa, knew she carried a baby in her before almost anyone else, Bull knew when she lied nearly as well as Varric did. 

“I’m going to fight him, Dorian.” She had to, she’d been given no other choice. 

“Venhedis, of course you will. That was never in question. The moment I heard him… the moment he decided not to be convinced by your pleas, I knew that if you survived that, one day you’d face him again. I knew it in my bones.” Dorian’s shoulders shuddered and he took a shallow breath. 

“I tried to kill him.” Her last act of defiance. Dorian laughed hollowly, bitterly. 

“Not shocking. That’s the woman I know and love, the one who tried to kill a God with her last breath.” Dorian released her hand and she pulled it back to herself quickly before he could grab it again, clenching a fistful of hay with it. 

“Is this what this is, then? Your penance for failing?” Dorian asked, waving an annoyed arm at her. “You send away all the people you love most because you couldn’t kill Solas when you had the opportunity? You do realize there was a mountain of extenuating circumstances, the most important being that you were very much on borrowed time.” 

“I can’t win.” The admission burned her tongue. “I can’t. I won’t. No matter what happens, no matter what comes next, you’re right. I’ll end up in front of him. With no hidden magic power, no arm, no bow, nothing.” 

The abyss swelled inside her, and she finally recognized it for what it was. Defeat. “I’ll lose and the world will burn, but not before every single one of you noble idiots tries to save my life.” She knew that, because she watched them do it once. “Again.” 

She was destined to lose because she was only mortal, because she was simply a dwarf from Ostwick, a Carta rat who stumbled into a movement and a moment larger than her. What chance did she have against gods?

“My friend.” Dorian blinked against the tears in his eyes. “Do you really believe it was your magic that saved us? Your arm or your bow?” 

That’s what made her special. That’s what made her who she was, and it was gone. She stared at him blankly and his sorrow turned to fierce indignation.

“You.” He declared, standing up. “It was always you, Maria. And it always will be. You’ll see, in time.” 

 

She knew the guild would follow her, so while she felt vaguely annoyed, she wasn’t particularly surprised when Cole whispered that they were coming. Why else would the former Inquisitor slip out of Halamshiral like a thief unless she was smuggling someone out with her? A very meddlesome younger Cadash, perhaps? 

The more concerning thing, in her opinion, was the Cole seemed to be having a small meltdown. He definitely heard something, patchwork pieces of thoughts, but all somewhat related. Or she hoped they were, at least. It’d be bad enough one person was following them mysteriously, let alone a group. 

“Sunlight through canvas, black ink over tanned skin, pale hands against his chest.”

“Face serious for a child, too serious, his father’s right. More time outside, out of these books. I’ll talk to her. Make her see.” 

“Mine. Can’t leave him now, not when he clutches onto me like this. Family is what you choose it to be.” 

“Sees blood on his hands when he looks at them, weary when he’s not laughing.” 

“This is becoming a bit alarming.” Dorian muttered darkly. “Cole, are you…” 

“The shape is wrong and  _ right _ .” Cole muttered. “Hides. Shifts and shapes. Can’t catch me if I can fly away.” 

“Somebody is following us.” A mage? Solas? Somebody who could confuse Cole couldn’t be treated as anything other than a grave threat. Maria pursed her lips shut tightly, considering. “Guild first, then we loop around and see if we can find the source of these thoughts.” 

A crow cawed above her as if agreeing. Maria ignored it as a flight of fancy on her part, pushing back sweat damp hair from her face and testing the weight of the blade in her hand. Damnit, she missed her bow so much she could taste it. 

Bea gave Varric a half dozen throwing knives, a few bottles of poison, and another wicked blade to put in Maria’s bags. The throwing knives were good, if she could remember how to throw them. It’d been a long time since she’d played with blades, hadn’t done so really since leaving the Carta. She’d been too busy as Inquisitor. Still, she’d been able to hit a tree several times, so she supposed she’d have to see. 

She wouldn’t risk the poison on them just yet, though. She felt reasonably certain that Bea left her the antidote to the Wyvern venom in one of the other little jars, but just in case it wasn’t actually the antidote, better safe than sorry. 

She needn’t have worried, the blade that launched into the unguarded throat of the first mercenary didn’t require poison to be lethal. It landed right, embedded in an artery that would bleed out in seconds. Make it quick and clean, she’d been taught as a girl. Zarra helped her kill her first man when she was barely fifteen. 

She killed hundreds since then, but none of them stuck with her the way that first one did. Maybe she learned after that not to watch as the light left someone’s eyes. The only time she could bring herself to do it now was when it seemed more merciful than not, like when the wound was too deep and she was too far away from the healers, or when the red lyrium corruption was too far gone. 

It’d been a long time since she’d washed her hands and not seen blood still stuck in her pores. She waded through enough of it in her life that she felt when she finally did die, she’d actually drown in it. 

She had enough time for one more knife, this one slicing through leather and in between ribs before she needed to pull her own blade. The man that fell was rising again, irises purple, a puppet to Dorian’s power. 

She slew dragons once, it was almost a bit insulting to think that the guild thought a dozen mercs could cut her down. Particularly with Cole and Dorian by her side. 

She didn’t even have time to slam her knife home into the unguarded armpit of another attacker before she felt the crackle of ozone, the prickle of electricity on the back of her neck. She swore she could smell it before the lightning struck, bouncing from one to another. 

The mercenary in front of her fell to the ground lifeless and Maria glared at Dorian. “I could do it, you know. Stop coddling me.”

Dorian’s eyes held barely concealed worry. “That, my dear woman, was not me.” 

“Her.” Cole’s breath rushed out, his eyes fixed somewhere past Maria. “Yes. The bird flies free and it’s the last thought Rhys’s mom has before she falls. Better to her than my own, Maker forgive me. Maker watch over her.  _ Her _ .” 

Maria twirled as quickly as she could, feeling the ache in her muscles protest against the movement. A figure stood behind her, still as one of the trees, a staff held loosely in one hand, the other nonchalantly tucking a strand of dark hair away from her eyes, revealing a wicked scar running the length of her cheek. 

Maria realized with a start that the woman could be Hawke’s sister, the only difference in their eyes and a general softness instead of Hawke’s sharper pixie features. The woman took a small step forward, inclining herself in a neat half bow as the rest of the mercenaries dropped to the ground.

“Inquisitor.” Her voice sounded softer than she expected it to, almost shy, and she smiled when she said the title. 

“Not anymore.” Maria corrected stiffly. It had to be her, it couldn’t be anyone else. She seemed nearly identical to how Varric described her, although perhaps older. She didn’t recall him mentioning the scar. “Warden.” She greeted cautiously. 

Amell’s smile didn’t falter, but only seemed to take on an amused lilt that reminded her even more of Hawke. “Not anymore.” 


	26. Recrimination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he failed any of them, he failed Maria the most. The thought made him reach for the bottle again, even when the door burst open.
> 
> Varric feels guilty and lets his guard down with devastating consequences.

Cutting across the damn countryside would have been faster. His carriage moved at a snail's pace along the Imperial Highway, but within two days they at last pulled into Lydes. The bustling city meant they had two options - find ship and sail across the narrowest part of the Waking Sea, or continue around the bay and to the other side via Montsimmard, Val Firmin, Velun… and finally to Val Chevin.

Val Firmin, Varric thought ruefully. Bianca's forge, the one her husband bought her when they were newly married, once existed there. Varric, unsurprisingly, never received an invitation to visit and always steered clear of it. Once, he recalled, the thought of Orlais conjured nothing but Bianca. Thoughts of where she was, what she was doing, shamefully sometimes even thoughts of whose bed she woke up in. But when he looked out the carriage window now at the rolling fields, the small farms, the quaint villages…

He remembered Maria, her Inquisition banners snapping in the wind, smoke rising into the air from burning bodies farther afield. She stood on the back of a supply cart, hair falling from the knot at the nape of her neck and sticking to her rosy skin in the heat. Displaced villagers circled the Inquisition carts and the people were only just starting to realize the Inquisitor herself was the one who distributed food into each pair of grimy, battle ravaged hands. She smiled down into open, wide eyed faces while she hauled baskets of food down as quickly as she could. 

She accused him, laughingly, of making that scene up for the book. Her memories of the Orlesian Heartlands consisted of endless walking, rifts spitting out demons, desolate and abandoned villages, pits of undead. He'd been there, though, he knew what happened. He recalled looking up from the medicine he'd been sorting just long enough to see someone gently, reverently, reach out to brush their fingers over her arm with desperate hope. Maria probably hadn't even realized, she raised her hand up to her arm as if to brush away a piece of ash, intent on the next refugee. She didn't see the awe on the face of the one who touched her. She didn’t see the way the sunlight hit brightly on her hair, making her a beacon in the crowd. 

She didn't know what she meant to them. To him. For Maria Cadash, it had been obvious what needed done so she started it. Sitting still and letting someone else hand out rations while she waited to hear about where her scouts sighted trouble probably never even crossed her mind. 

And now, possibly for the rest of his life, when he thought of Orlais, he saw her hair in the sun, conjured her eyes lit up in determination and her bow drawn taut, her lips quirking up in amusement. 

Sweet hairy ancestors, that woman. That mad, impossible woman. His woman. 

"Well Tethras. I'm going to be honest, we're both playing so shittily that I just now noticed we've got about twice the number of face cards this deck should have." Bea sighed, spreading her hand across the table in defeat. She did indeed have seven queens instead of four, Varric had two in his own hand as well.

"Well." Varric threw his own cards down, not even bothering to see if either of them had been close to winning. "That's what we get for trying to play Diamondback with one of your sister's Wicked Grace decks."

He almost heard Maria's amused sultry chuckle. Diamondback wasn't Maria's game, she only ever acquiesced to it for Fenris. She borrowed one of his decks or Hawke's whenever he talked her into it. Varric could go through the effort of digging out his own deck in his luggage, but these cards felt like Maria in her absence, brought her spirit to sit at the table between the two of them.

Bea traced a finger down one of the cards as if she felt it too before shaking her head. "I'd use mine, but Bela has it marked up so terribly the game is basically unsalvageable." 

"At the risk of learning entirely more than I want to know, what exactly is going on there? I've known Rivaini nearly fifteen years and I've never seen her carry on like she does with you." 

He'd seen Isabela carry on with lots of people, though. Men, women, elves, dwarves, she certainly couldn't be called discriminatory. Or discerning. Bea's lips twitched fondly. "You know how it is. She's got a lover in every port. I've got operations in every port. It's efficient and we’re getting older." 

Varric raised his eyebrow as he brought his glass to his lips. Bea ignored him serenely, shuffling the cards halfheartedly. "And..?" He prodded.

"For the love of…" Bea shook her head in exasperation, slinking down into her seat. "She's fun. I'm fun. Not every affair has to have a thrill of danger or inspire epic poetry to be worth it." 

"No thrill of danger? With Rivaini?" Varric questioned in disbelief. "Managing all that leg alone seems plenty dangerous."

"I like human legs." Bea grinned, wrinkling her nose while her eyes sparkled in amusement. "Ever notice how nicely they wrap around things? Masts, trees…" 

"Dwarves?" He added with no small amount of exasperation. Bea tilted her head to the side curiously. 

"Have you honestly never had one?" Bea leaned forward, warming to the subject. This was probably marginally better than sitting in silence and moping. Marginally. "I thought for sure you and Hawke did the horizontal dance at least once." 

He nearly spat out his drink. "Andraste's sanctified ass. Who gave you that idea?" 

"According to Bela, Hawke slept with the entire brothel and most of Kirkwall."

"Congratulations." Varric's voice dripped sarcasm. "You found the least reliable source of information about Kirkwall. Truly, a feat to be proud of."

Bea frowned, disappointed. "Well. Bianca thought the two of you were sleeping together."

Funny how that sentence could start a migraine headache as easily as all the letters Bianca sent implying the very same thing. Almost like his body had just been waiting for two years to have the same damn argument. "Yeah, well. I wasn't sleeping with Hawke. Ever."

"I would." Bea propped her elbow on the table, settled her chin in her palm while she contemplated. "Even though she has a baby now. She's still the Champion, right? Something to brag about." 

"Getting past Broody would be something to write home about." Varric muttered, tracing his thumb over a deep scratch on the table. The silence stretched on and Varric looked up right into Bea's piercing eyes. 

Maria's eyes. His heart thudded uncomfortably and he very nearly almost conjured Maria’s face out her sister’s features. 

"You haven't asked about her." Bea stated shrewdly, narrowing her eyes. "I thought you would."

"I don’t need to ask what Rivaini’s doing.” Varric deflected easily. “I know she’s plundering, partying…" 

Bea flicked one of the cards from the deck at his face. Varric dodged just in time to avoid a papercut and the aggravating woman giggled in response. “Don’t bullshit me, Tethras.” 

“I’m not having this conversation with you. I’m  _ never _ having this conversation with you.” It was awkward and probably dangerous and he couldn’t see any way to make it less fraught. Bea tapped her fingers against her chin thoughtfully, pondering him like he was a difficult lock and she just needed to find the right tool. 

“I like Bianca, you know.” Bea stated simply. “Not all the time, but sometimes. More than I thought I would, at any rate. She’s been better in the last year, happier, I think.” 

Happier. Varric hoped so, truly. “If she wanted me to know how she was doing, Mittens, she’d write.” 

“And risk giving  _ me _ a letter for you?” Bea laughed. “She barely trusts me, and the way she’s been burned I don’t blame her. She thinks any letter she wrote would end up in Maria’s ha…” 

Just like that, the situation came crashing back down around them. Bea’s teasing smile dropped as quickly as her eyes flew to the table. Varric’s throat swelled shut, the thought of Maria’s hands both sobering and depressing. 

“She made it through after Hercinia.” Bea stated through gritted teeth. “She’ll get through this. She has to.”

 

Varric’s neck prickled and his fingers twitched for his crossbow over his shoulder, but he stilled them. No use in letting the dwarf he caught sight of in his peripheral know that Varric saw him duck into a dark corner. Varric nonchalantly waved the innkeeper over and requested one breakfast tray be sent to his rooms before turning and ambling easily back to the steps. He didn’t betray that he felt the dwarf’s eyes follow him, a lingering weight on his shoulder.

Andraste’s freckled tits, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Definitely Carta, he mused as he climbed. Varric could spot Carta from a mile away, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were in trouble. He didn’t recognize the shadowed figure, but it’d been awhile since the Cadash clan traipsed freely though Skyhold. 

“Mittens.” He began mildly as he shut the door behind him with a click. Bea made an irritated noise in the back of her throat, pulling the blanket up further around her ears in the bed she occupied. Varric slept on the damn chair like a gentleman, even though he felt entirely too old for this. “When you said you sent your people away, where exactly did you send them to?” 

She mumbled something under the quilt. Varric sighed wearily, tugging it down impatiently. “Repeat that?”

“Amaranthine.” She groaned, pulling the quilt out of his hand with a piercing glare. “Sod off, Tethras.” 

“Is there any chance any of them ended up in Lydes?” 

Bea mumbled sleepily. “No, don’t listen to me like they did for Nanna. For Maria. But they wouldn’t risk going further into Orlais. Not stupid.” 

Shit. “So, any other enemies you’ve made lately? Carta clan wars you’ve started?” 

Bea blinked once, twice, turning her eyes to him with gradual alertness coming over her features. “No. Who’d start a Carta war with the Inquisitor’s sister?” 

Fair point, but not reassuring. If they weren’t here on their own volition, somebody paid for them. Varric had been on the wrong end of enough assassination attempts to know where this was going. “So, we’ve got a problem and we’re going to need to rethink our plans.” 

“Of course we do.” Bea grumbled, sitting up and pushing her frazzled curls away from her face. “What is it?” 

Varric quickly explained what he saw, pausing only to retrieve their breakfast cautiously from the door. He half expected to need to dodge a crossbow bolt while he balanced the tray on one arm. “So, as you can see…” 

“We don’t know they’re here for me.” Bea’s eyes swirled, a mixture of flashing emotions and half formed thoughts. “Something isn’t right here.” 

He hated to be patronizing, but she was sorely asking for it. “Mittens, when you fuck around with the guild, you develop a rather more lengthy list of enemies than you sign up for.” 

She had that mutinous look on her face, the one she usually saved for Maria. Varric needed to salvage this somehow and pull the plug on whatever rebellious notions entered the younger Cadash’s head. “Beatrix.” He warned carefully. “Would your sister  _ really _ want us to take a chance investigating the Carta lurking downstairs, or would she rather we just act like the worst is happening?” 

Bea deflated in guilt, biting her lip. “You want us to split up.”

“They don’t know you’re up here.” If they knew, they’d have slipped up the stairs and slid a knife between her ribs while she slept and he waited for the innkeeper’s attention. “Which means you can cut up to the harbor and find a ship to get you to Val Chevin while they follow me around the coast.” 

Maybe he could ditch his own coach then and cut through the heartlands the same way Dorian planned to take Maria. Risky for a dwarf on his own, but with luck he would catch up. Maria couldn’t possibly be moving that quickly, not the way she’d been favoring her whole right side still. Dorian wouldn’t push her, either. In fact, the poor man was probably forcing her to rest as much as possible. 

“I don’t like it.” Bea tossed her curls over her shoulder. “I’m telling you, something stinks like nug shit.” 

This whole thing stunk, Varric agreed. Somebody had to have leaked Bea was with him, and he couldn’t imagine who in the unholy void would do that beyond Bran, who he’d been watching very carefully for just that. “If something happens to you, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” Varric remarked casually.

“I don’t want to leave you behind.” Bea blurted helplessly. 

Because the Cadash sisters didn’t leave people behind, their cardinal rule, born from a life lived without parents who died alone and forgotten in the Deep Roads. Maria repeated it over and over again, made decisions based on it first, every other consideration second. “I know, Mittens.” Varric began heavily. “We don’t leave people behind. I get it.” 

“You’re not just people.” Bea sighed, flopping back down on the bed hopelessly. “You’re family, you great beardless oaf.”    
Varric had family, lots of them. He expected, rather reasonably, nearly all of them would gladly sell him out for a couple gold pieces. With a surge of fondness, he realized Beatrix Cadash wouldn’t. Not unless he deserved it, anyway. He shook his head, looking down at the little sister he didn’t want or need. The one the guild could pry out his cold, dead hands. “That almost sounded like affection, Mittens.”

Bea’s lips twitched. “It wasn’t.” She argued. 

Varric didn’t believe her for a minute. 

 

Bea slipped out the back window with enough coin to get her safely onto a ship to Val Royeaux. From there, she’d have an easy time getting to Val Chevin. If she encountered problems there, well, Val Chevin was just a quick jaunt from the border with Nevarra and Bea was pretty certain the Siren’s Revenge was going to be docked at Cumberland. 

Varric waited an hour before he departed with Bran for Verchiel. This, definitively, was Maria’s territory thanks to Sera and her “friends.” Dorian and Maria wouldn’t risk the city itself, but they’d skirt close on their way into the plains. Varric had a head start in the carriage, although surely eroding by the hour. If he dithered in Verchiel for a day, he may run right into them. Maria probably wouldn’t be thrilled he sent Bea on ahead, but he couldn’t summon enough concern about her temper. Hell, he’d take fury gladly if it meant she was coming back to herself. 

Anything was better than the empty look in her eyes when she said he should have left her. Anything would be less a knife to the heart than that. 

But Varric couldn’t anticipate how utterly solitary the journey to Verchiel was. Bea’s paltry distractions did more to lighten the mood than he thought and he missed them. Without her rambling, inappropriate conversation or her efforts to engage him in halfhearted card games, the air itself felt heavy as lead. 

He couldn’t write with the carriage moving, a frustration. If he could write, if he could pour something out onto the page, it would stop careening around his head like a trapped bird beating wings against the windows. Instead, he flicked thoughtlessly and furiously through his journal, as if he could find something comforting in the pages.

Instead, all he saw were broken pieces of his soul. There, a snippet of Tale of the Champion,  telling the way Hawke held her mother, the one that didn’t make it into the book because it was too close to the way she’d really fallen apart, keening, even as both Broody and Blondie tried to pull her away from the monster in front of her. 

Half a verse of poetry Maria inspired when she rose from the bath, dripping like a siren, water sloshing off her pinkened skin and a smile, sly and winsome, aimed in his direction. 

A rude drawing of a prick over a verbose and overly grand description of Skyhold. Sera’s doing, he was sure. 

A dried marguerite folded between two pages of a heavily embellished account of Maria fighting Hakon in the Frostback Basin. They grew all over the ground there and Maria nearly constantly had one tucked behind her ear. That was where she asked him to tell her story, and he’d started with that fight. 

One more god for his Herald to strike down. It seemed easy then. 

 

He started drinking nearly as soon as they got to Verchiel. Rookie mistake, really. At the very least, he knew better than to drink alone, in his room. No good story ever started out “the very sad man drank himself into a stupor,” but there he was. His mother drank herself into a grave. Varric swore he’d never go the same way, but on days like this, it seemed like as good an idea as any. 

Three days since he’d seen Maria. Three days since they lost their child, since she lost her damn arm. Three days since they found out they’d been pieces in a bigger game all along. He toyed with the idea of making Bran drink with him. The man was insufferable, but at least he could say he hadn’t been drinking alone. But, he’d sober up in the morning and head out on his own, let Bran accompany the damned carriage the rest of the way.

Varric could spend this last night of weakness picking over the last three years with a fine toothed comb. There was Chuckles, at Haven, swearing that the mark on Maria’s hand was the best damned way to close the breach. Solas grabbing her glowing hand when she appeared, careless of the way Maria flinched away from him, thrusting it towards the sky.

Solas telling her to lead them to Skyhold. 

Solas asking her not to drink from the well. Begging her not to. 

Solas digging the red lyrium shard from her shoulder. 

Varric should have seen it coming. An Elven apostate who just happened to know as much about the fade as they needed? Who guessed how the rifts worked? They’d been fucking blind. He’d been blind, he knew betrayal. Felt it in his own back the day Kirkwall blew up. How did he miss this? 

Solas told him, once, Maria would fall. He said it with an air of certain fatality because Solas fucking knew. Solas always knew. 

The knock on the door dragged him from his recrimination. He ignored it. Varric instead chose to focus, morosely, on how he failed the women in his life, repeatedly. Bianca, his first failure. She’d been destined to be a paragon, he knew that then, but still… Varric wanted her regardless of the cost. If not for him, for his selfishness and greed, Bianca may have been able to be truly happy with her husband. She may not have had to flee in the night, stashed wherever Beatrix stuck her. She wouldn’t be a paragon now, not hiding from her own shadow.

Hawke, his great champion, bound up in all his clever lies and fanciful stories. Was he the reason Orsino and Meredith stuck her in the middle? Her reputation was his own making, wasn’t it? A game he’d played, vainly, for the masses because Varric had to hear the sound of his own voice. His best friend who tried desperately to hold his home together even when Kirkwall ripped everything away from her. 

And Maria…

Maria mourning the loss of the child he wanted, broken and battered in a bed too large for her, miles away from anything remotely close to being called home. Maria fleeing into the night because he couldn’t keep her sister out of a jail cell, Maria flinching from his touch the same way she flinched from Solas’s the first time he grabbed her hand. Maria standing under the breach alone, always alone.

If he failed any of them, he failed Maria the most. The thought made him reach for the bottle again, even when the door burst open. He was too drunk to do more than fumble for the crossbow, barely hefted it into his arms before the blow to his head sent him into blissful unconsciousness. 


	27. Surviving the Blaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The shape is different, but you’re the same.” Cole nodded to himself. “You change, but you’re the same. The girl from Kinloch come home, Amor, Hero, Sister, Commander, Friend, Arlessa, Wife, Witch, Mother. You are so many things.”
> 
> “I’ve had many skins in my life.” Chantal’s shape stretched leisurely.
> 
> “Wear them, shed them. But the bones are the same.” Cole raised his hand, pointed at Maria. “Tell her. She’s not dead, it’s just a different skin. You know.”

Cole trusted her, and that should be enough. Cole only ever steered her wrong once before, although to be fair it was perhaps the single biggest mistake he could have made. It also, in his defense, could possibly not be his fault. Even if Cole understood Solas’s plans, who could say whether or not Solas didn’t pluck them from Cole’s mind somehow?

“Leliana’s friend.” Maria guessed, sheathing her blade at her side. “The one she sent for to help figure out the anchor.” 

The Warden, and Maria couldn’t stop calling her that, nodded in agreement. “Yes. I’m sorry, it appears I was too late to assist. I’m unsure of any aid I could have offered regardless. I know strange magic and I’ve seen… odd things, but I’m not an expert in much beyond killing darkspawn.” 

“And falling off the map whenever the world would very much benefit from your expertise.” Dorian claimed sourly, angling himself so he stood between Maria and the other mage. “Thank you for your unneeded assistance at this juncture. Now if you’d please…” 

“I was dying.” Her soft eyes showed a hint of sadness. “I regret I was unable to help you more, but I very much didn’t want to go. I wasn’t ready.” 

Maria wished she had something to say about knowing how that felt, but she didn’t. Sometimes, you were meant to die. Sometimes, it was the better option. She observed the Warden silently as the woman stood stone still, observing her in return. Chantal didn’t flinch away from her gaze like so many other people. Instead, she simply nodded as if she’d found the answer to a difficult and complex question. “I’m glad to meet you.” Chantal smiled sweetly. “Leliana confided in me that you have been through a great ordeal, that you are even more injured than you appear.” 

“If that were any of your business…” Dorian began to snarl. Maria choked back her own rage and Chantal held her hands up in a placating gesture.

“She did not tell me what had happened beyond the loss of your arm.” Chantal continued calmly, soothingly. “But… if you’d like, there is a healer at my camp.” 

“He has bloody hands, her healer. Wants to forget, but he can’t.” Cole muttered, edging himself closer to Maria as well as if to form a buffer between her and the Warden. 

“I know who your healer is.” Maria steeled her voice, tried to make it sound the way it did when she commanded her people. “He’s a murderer.” 

“Yes.” Chantal admitted softly. “That’s true. But you need not suffer if he can help you, and I would like…” 

Chantal trailed off, for the first time perhaps uncertain. She looked up at the sky, as if wishing she could become a bird again and fly off before swinging her dark eyes back down to Maria’s. “I would like to talk to you about Fen’Harel and Mythal. My cousin and I were saved from certain doom by Mythal, and I now find that your Fen’Harel caused the tear in the sky.”

Her Fen’Harel, wouldn’t Solas love that. It suited, didn’t it? If people ever told this story, they couldn’t mention him without her. Her without him. Chantal continued on calmly. “I should… very much like to ensure I am no longer used as a tool in these games. That my friends are not.” 

That, Maria understood perfectly. “I don’t know if I can help you, Warden.” 

“Mythal is dead.” Chantal’s jaw tensed, her lips pursed. “Or at the very least, gone. To where, we know not, but Morrigan felt her leave this world.” 

Mythal had been murdered, Solas said. Did he mean recently? She thought he meant  _ forever _ ago, but admittedly, she hadn’t been in the best state of mind. She’d been too busy dying herself. 

“How can you be so sure?” Dorian folded his arms over his chest and scowled, mustache twitching. 

“She said goodbye.” Cole whispered. “Goodbye, and I’m sorry.” 

“A message sent right into Morrigan’s head. Caused a right mess of a nose bleed.” Chantal muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. “I promised Morrigan I’d make sure her mother couldn’t hurt her or her boy, but now I’m worried… perhaps that is not what we needed to be concerned about.” 

“Where is your camp?” Maria demanded sternly. “Is Morrigan there?” 

“No. She’s in Ferelden… I’m afraid it is only me, Nate…” 

“Anders.” Maria guessed venomously. 

“And my son.” Chantal finished softly. “So I will not take you to them unless I know there will be no bloodshed.” 

My son. The words sent a spike through her throbbing heart. Yes, Chantal Amell didn’t know the extent of her injuries, because if she did, the woman seemed too kind to simply drop that into conversation. Maria felt the tension radiating from Dorian even as he turned to stare down at her. She ignored the sympathy in his eyes. 

“My husband is elsewhere, but he’ll return soon. We were uncertain in which direction you went, we thought perhaps you intended to rejoin…” 

If the Warden said his name, Maria’s heart would bleed right through her shirt. “I don’t want Anders to touch me.” Not again. She still remembered the bruises of his fingertips on her throat, the way Varric skimmed them gently with his thumb. “But I’m no longer Inquisitor and I have no authority to give him what he richly deserves.” 

“None of us find what we deserve in this world.” Chantal looked up at the sky again. “But he has  the power to save thousands, if it makes you feel better.”

“It isn’t justice.” Dorian snapped. 

“But it is mercy.” Chantal shrugged. “And I find that is the virtue I appreciate more.” 

“I wouldn’t mind learning what you know of Mythal.” Maria decreed, certain enough to cause  Dorian to glance down at her ruefully. Her friend didn’t argue, though. 

“We have some healing herbs as well, and plenty of food and drink at our camp.” Chantal offered to appease Dorian. “It is a safe place to rest for the evening.” 

Fine, Maria thought. She hitched her bag up over her shoulder and inclined her head to Chantal to allow her to take the lead. 

Dorian thought to ask the questions Maria felt too exhausted to entertain. He pressed for Morrigan’s whereabouts, was told Morrigan returned to Ferelden to see her own son, now entering adolescence. Apparently, Chantal had been there as well, but not haunting Denerim. She still counted herself wanted for offenses against the Grey Wardens and couldn’t risk resuming her old titles in Amaranthine. It hadn’t stopped the Ferelden Wardens from quietly rallying to her, apparently, even though she claimed to be no Warden. 

“Are you tainted, then?” Dorian queried. 

“No more or less than the rest of the world.” Chantal answered cryptically. 

“Then you cured it.” Dorian pressed. “Is that the power you speak of? To save thousands?” 

“We have.” Chantal admitted with a weary sigh. “And we haven’t. It is… more complicated than I wish to explain. Suffice it to say that the cure we currently have is nearly as fatal as the blight itself, but we have not given up.” 

“You are being evasive.” Dorian glared daggers down at the smaller woman’s head. Chantal pressed her lips together in a thin line. 

“The woman knew she was dying.” Cole whispered. “Mana. Ma halani. His name is Malakai, take him if I don’t… Please. Ar lath ma, my son. My son.” 

Chantal startled, whirling and fixing furious eyes on Cole. “What kind of…”

“Stop.” Maria commanded, thrusting her remaining arm out in front of Cole to put a barrier between the two of them. “He… just does this. It’s complicated. He doesn’t mean any harm.” 

“It hurts.” Cole frowned deeply. “You love him so, but you killed her. She was dying anyway, the cure could have saved her. You didn’t know. He’ll forgive you when he can because you tried.” 

“Who’s Malakai?” Dorian asked immediately. “Another victim of your cure?” 

“My son.” Chantal whispered, turning her heavy face from Cole. “His true mother died of my cure. And that…” She pinned Dorian under her dark eyes. “Is why I prefer none but us mess with it until we can fix it.” 

Dorian had the good grace to look abashed. Maria didn’t save him from his foot in his mouth, she was too busy thinking of all the people she didn’t save too.

 

Amell whistled, long and low, as they walked. She paused in the silence, waiting, until she heard an answer from ahead. Another low whistle echoed through the trees and it brought a smile to Chantal’s serious face. She whistled again in return and for a moment, only silence reigned.

Then something small and eager crashed through the branches, laughing breathlessly. “Mama!” 

He must have been four, perhaps a bit older than Fledgling, a sweet little blonde elven boy with an impish grin. Behind him, moving slower, a man with a pointed face and dark hair waited. He carried a bow, an arrow cocked in preparation. Maria’s eyes fastened on it with a sense of longing she couldn’t quite put into words. 

“Kai.” Chantal greeted, crouching and pulling the child into a fierce hug, standing with him in her arms. He giggled as she pressed her lips to his cheeks in an affectionate frenzy until he pushed her away, his arms circling her neck. “I missed you.” 

She couldn’t watch this. She stared, unseeing, at the bow in the other man’s hand, ignored the twisting deep in her gut. It was selfish, she reminded herself dully, to begrudge another woman’s happiness. It was beneath her. And yet, nothing soothed the nauseous sorrow churning within the abyss. 

“Shale?” The boy asked gleefully, wriggling in the Warden’s arms. “Did Shale come?” 

“Ah, no.” Chantal smiled apologetically at Maria. “This is my friend. What would you like Kai to call you?” 

It didn’t matter. She wanted him to ignore her, leave her be. “Maria.” She answered stiffly instead. Dorian’s hand fluttered near her back in a gesture meant to be soothing, but that made her skin crawl instead. 

“Chantal, your little beast…” 

The voice shouldn’t sound so familiar, but it was as if she’d heard it over and over again. Not like this, though. Not laced with laughter, not bright and cheerful. Not accompanied by a grin torn between exasperation and amusement when he emerged from the brush. Chantal pulled Kai closer to her, met her steady eyes with the man with the bow as if to instruct him to be ready. 

Anders trailed off at the sight of them. He landed on Dorian first before careening to Cole, lingering on the hat he wore almost against his will. Then his gaze swept downward in a panic before meeting her gaze. She waited for the flash of anger, the roar of fury that made her threaten to hold the King of Ferelden hostage.

She felt nothing but resigned. “Maker’s breath, Amell. I didn’t think either of you would  _ actually _ talk them into coming here. I owe Zevran five silvers.” Anders rubbed his jaw with an awkward chuckle, dropping his eyes to the ground. 

“Are we certain this is a good idea?” The archer asked, shifting his weight onto his left leg. His preferred shooting stance, Maria guessed. 

“Yes.” Chantal stated firmly. “Maria, this is Nathaniel Howe. You know Anders, and this is Malakai.” Chantal hitched the child up on her hip, musing his hair gently. 

“Dorian and Cole.” Maria waved her hand behind her. The movement caused her cloak to flutter, dragged Ander’s arm to the empty space at her elbow. The empty space that  _ throbbed _ with remembered pain. 

Howe’s bow dipped in shock, but it was Anders who stepped forward immediately, eyes fixed on her arm. “Andraste have mercy, here let me…” 

“I would not if I were you.” Dorian drew himself up, planting his staff firmly in the ground. “I believe you have done quite enough damage without adding to our problems.” Anders glared at the stub, then tried to catch her eye. Maria very clearly refused to meet them, raising an eyebrow in Chantal’s direction. 

“That  _ has _ to hurt. The nerve damage alone…” Anders began impatiently. 

“I offered them access to the herbs we have. If you could retrieve them.” Chantal instructed briefly. 

“There’s not enough elfroot in the world to help that!” Anders protested. “Let me just…” 

“No.” Maria snapped immediately, finally lifting her eyes to his. She saw herself reflected there, saw him hesitate momentarily. 

“Anders.” Chantal commanded. And there it was, in that tone of voice, the woman who slayed an archdemon. “You tried to kill her, you don’t  _ get _ to decide she needs to get over it.” 

“Run along then.” Dorian instructed waspishly. Anders looked like he might revolt, but simply threw his hands up in the air and turned back to crash through the bush. 

“Anders is mad.” Malakai whispered to Chantal conspiratorially. “I ate all the berries.” 

“Ah, that’s it.” Chantal smiled serenely down at the boy. “Well, I suppose we’ve all gotten off easy then, right Nate?” 

“If you say so.” Howe didn’t bother to bring his bow back up, turning on his heel. “I’ll be the one who has to listen to him, you know.”

 

She hated to agree with Anders - really hated it - but he was probably right. She was managing to keep down the elfroot potion Dorian brewed up, but only just, and she couldn’t say for certain it was helping anything. She passed on anything to eat except a crust of bread, and only that because Dorian threatened to shove it down her throat.

Chantal freely handed over every scrap of lore they had on Mythal and Dorian combed through it anxiously, but Maria couldn’t concentrate on her own sheath of papers in her lap. Chantal and the little boy sat in the firelight, him on her lap while she told him some story. A little boy who’d been turned into a rabbit by an evil wizard and befriended a griffon to help break the curse. As Chantal spoke, she conjured shapes of smoke and light to her fingers, rabbits that flew from her hands and around the fire, a wizard that rose from the fire before descending back into embers.

Her storytelling could use some work, but Maria had probably been spoiled by Varric’s caramel voice spinning tales from nothing as effortlessly as Chantal conjured sparks. Still, the little creatures were cute, and the child seemed enthralled, particularly when one of Chantal’s creatures seemed to escape her grasp and circle around Howe’s head.  

The child’s giggle pierced the night and Maria throbbed all over, dropping her head quickly to her knees so she didn’t see, couldn’t see, the glow of Chantal’s happiness. She tugged the necklace around her neck, fingers worrying the smooth ring still laced on it next to the crest she’d worn for ten years. Cole edged closer to her, his hat obscuring the sight, but not the sound of her voice or his laughter. 

“He remembers.” Cole whispered into her ear. “The hawk laughs when she finds it, holding it up to catch the sun. She throws the coins on the stall and takes off, flying, fleeting, free. Free.” 

Maria didn’t say anything, but she tucked the chain back into her shirt and stared down at the papers in her lap, ignoring the burning gaze of the mage she should have executed lingering on her shoulder like a brand.

 

_ “I heard an interesting rumor earlier.”  _

_ Maria met her grandmother’s eyes in the mirror, not pausing in the smooth movements of the brush through her red hair. She grinned, charming, at the stern face above her shoulder. “If it’s about the blight about to start in Ferelden, I think it’s hogwash. Every time a city gets a cough, somebody starts shouting blight.”  _

_ “No.” Nanna’s face didn’t betray any emotion. “No, it was about you.”  _

_ Maria carefully sat the brush down, turning in her chair and propping her elbow up on the back of it. “I love rumors about me. Am I sleeping with the guard captain? Single handedly sailing our ships across the Waking Sea?”  _

_ “Apparently, you’re sleeping with Lorcan Dunhark’s boy.”  _

_ She kept her smile in place, shook her head in exasperation. “Of course I am.” She made her voice as heavy with sarcasm as she could. Zarra’s eyes flicked across her features, looking for any tell, any betraying twitch. “Although I suppose he’s not bad looking. Better than the guard captain at any rate.”  _

_ “Many a woman will do foolish things for a handsome man.” Zarra began slowly. Maria shrugged carelessly, turning back to the mirror and picking up her brush.  _

_ “I wouldn’t.” She said simply, holding up the ends of her hair and examining them critically. “Do you think I need a haircut?”  _

_ “I think you need your head smacked.” Zarra’s mask fell, Maria saw the white hot fury in the woman’s eyes. Her heart sank somewhere into her stomach. “I sent a man to find you last night Maria.”  _

_ It was her turn to be furious. She gripped the brush tighter, whirling back around in the chair to glare daggers at the old woman. “You had me followed?” She asked incredulously.  _

_ “Followed all the way into the young man’s forge.” Zarra seethed. She crossed her arms over her chest. “He stayed long enough to be certain what you were up to, then reported back to me. How could you be so foolish? Do you not know…”  _

_ “You had a man wait at a door to make sure I was fucking someone?” Maria repeated, the words tasting sour in her mouth. “You have got to be shitting me.”  _

_ “His father is aware.” Zarra continued in a voice not dissimilar to a snarl. “He finds it no obstacle to his plans to auction the boy off. Do you know that the only business the elder Dunhark has that is making any profit is that forge? He thinks to sell that lad to some deshyr’s daughter and sink the money into his other ventures.” _

_ Maria knew. Fynn poured his frustration into his work and traced his fury into her skin. Fynn’s father saw him as a family heirloom, a priceless antique, something to pawn off when times got tough, regardless of Fynn’s dreams, his hopes. His heart, which Maria carried around with her own.  _

_ “I don’t give a damn what his father thinks.” Neither did Fynn.  _

_ “His father thinks you’re his son’s whore.” Zarra spat harshly. “And that you’ll be disposed of as soon as he tires of you, just like every other deshyr’s whore.”  _

_ The chair tipped over because Maria stood up so violently, fury bringing the color to her face. “How dare you…”  _

_ “End it before you get dragged into this mess, Maria, or ancestors help you…” Zarra ordered. _

_ “Fuck your ancestors. This isn’t Orzammar, in case you haven’t noticed.” She threw the brush onto the table behind her, the sound echoing in the room. Her fingers fumbled when she grabbed her coat.  _

_ “I didn’t realize I had raised a foolish ninny willing to spread her legs…”  _

_ “SHUT UP!” Maria’s scream pierced the room, brought Zarra’s rant to a halt. All Maria could hear was her own heartbeat against her ribs. A movement at the door drew her eye to Bea’s startled face.  _

_ “It isn’t like that.” Her lips felt numb. “He loves me.”  _

_ She grabbed the belt that housed his daggers, the ones he crafted just for her. Zarra’s expression was stony. “You’re a fool.” She growled. “He’ll use you and discard you, mark my words.”  _

_ Fynn wouldn’t. Fynn would never call her a whore, never break her heart, never betray her. Maria stormed past her grandmother, shoved past Bea in the door.  _

_ “Maria!” Bea called after her, but Maria was halfway down the steps, the grand door in sight. She ignored her sister’s plaintive cries and pushed the door open as hard as she could.  _

_ She stumbled into the hallway of Halamshiral, her arm on fire, sorrow clawing at her throat while she watched the Kirkwall flags vanish from view. She stood alone at the window, pressing her remaining palm against it. He loved her, he loved her, he… _

_ “He loved Inquisitor Cadash.” Zarra whispered from behind her. She could see her grandmother’s shape in the reflection of the glass, warped and twisted into something with long claws and dripping teeth. The only part of it still recognizable were her grandmother’s striking eyes bearing into her soul as the creature dug its claws into her shoulder hard enough to draw blood from the scarred flesh, to make her whimper. “But Inquisitor Cadash is dead, girl, and your usefulness is over.”  _

 

She woke up to darkness lit only by the stars above her, pinpricks of light through the trees. Her chest heaved for a breath that almost turned into a sob before she smothered it, choked it back into the darkness inside her. She pushed herself up with the stub of her arm despite the sharp flare of pain that made her see stars on the inside of her eyelids. 

“Did we wake you?” The question was whispered from near the dying fire, a soft woman’s voice in the night. She turned to look over her shoulder, the silhouette of Chantal Amell in the darkness next to a familiar hat. 

“Nightmares.” Cole stated darkly, venomously. “But it isn’t real. He  _ does _ love you, he lied for them and it hurt. It hurt so much.” 

“No.” Maria answered Chantal’s question, sitting up and allowing the cloak to fall into her lap the same way Cullen’s mantle used to. “I still dream, even with the anchor gone. I never did before, and I’ve not gotten used to it.” 

If this odd statement, a dreaming dwarf, ruffled Chantal’s feathers the woman didn’t show it in her voice. “I don’t sleep well often either, even now. Haven’t since the blight, drives everyone mad.”

Chantal lapsed into silence for only a moment before continuing on. “Cole says he’s a spirit of compassion made human?” 

“Yes.” Cole and Maria echoed at the same time. Chantal made a small sound of curiosity, a little hum of a scholar approaching a difficult puzzle. It reminded her of Dorian sleeping soundly beside her. 

“But not like Wynne.” Cole corrected. “I am my own, not like her or Justice. I am.” 

“How?” She prodded. 

“Curious. Bright eyes, what are the birds called? How do I fly?” Cole mumbled. “Proud. She was proud of you. She had the staff you gave her, the one that frightened you. The one from Ostagar. It’s in the rubble under the spire.” 

“Good.” Chantal nodded her head as if in agreement. “It can stay there, I wouldn’t trust anyone but Wynne with it.” 

“He wanted to help, so he took a shape to do it.” Maria stated dully, drawing her knees up to her chin. “His shape. The way you take them.” 

“I don’t think it’s the same.” But Chantal’s teeth caught the meager light anyway, a small smile in her shadowy form. “But I understand that.”

“The shape is different, but you’re the same.” Cole nodded to himself. “You change, but you’re the same. The girl from Kinloch come home, Amor, Hero, Sister, Commander, Friend, Arlessa, Wife, Witch, Mother. You are so many things.”

“I’ve had many skins in my life.” Chantal’s shape stretched leisurely.

“Wear them, shed them. But the bones are the same.” Cole raised his hand, pointed at Maria. “Tell her. She’s not dead, it’s just a different skin. You know.” 

“Cole.” Maria sighed wearily. 

“It isn’t something you can tell, is it?” Chantal mused, snapping her fingers. The fire jumped to life, illuminating her scarred face. She didn’t look away from it, staring into the flickering flames. It made her look older, turned the soft face into something hard. “I think the girl from Kinloch hold would be proud of the woman I became. I think she was a kind girl, compassionate, and I think she would know that some choices were very, very hard. I think she would know I was wrong, sometimes, but that I tried my hardest.” 

There was a girl once in Ostwick, but that girl didn’t grow. She died. 

“Where are you going?” Chantal asked quietly. “What will you do next, Inquisitor?” 

“Inquisitor Cadash is dead.” The words fell like stones into the night, made Cole shrink inside himself. Chantal looked away from the fire, flames dancing in her eyes as she observed her. 

“No.” Chantal breathed softly. “I do not think she is.”


	28. The Forge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's past catches up with him.

What was worse, death by boredom or death by choking on your own blood? An interesting philosophical question, one he thought may have been asked at the Hanged Man during a game of Wicked Grace with the old Kirkwall gang. Varric for the life of him couldn’t remember the answer. 

Really, the answer was secondary anyway. Despite his internal monologue of complaints, he probably wasn’t going to die from the blood leaking into his mouth courtesy of the re-broken nose he nursed. He also should enjoy the boredom he endured now because he anticipated the rest of his stay with his captors would be a bit more violent and a lot less pleasant. 

He’d been right about them being Carta, at least. He still hadn’t quite figured out a family, but he narrowed it down to two or three based on the snippets of conversation he heard from under the sack they shoved his head in. Maker’s assbiscuits, it smelled like the inside of a privy. 

“How you doin’ in there Tethras?” One of the dwarves asked just as the cart he was in rolled into a rather jarring hole in the road. Unable to see it coming, Varric bounced around like unsecure cargo. 

“Is the person driving hitting all these holes on purpose, or are they just that shitty at their job?” Varric asked casually. He’d been trying to make conversation from under the hood since they figured out he was awake, probably three hours or so ago. It had been early evening when they nabbed him, but judging from the light he guessed it was now midmorning. 

“Hear that, Krak? The deshyr says you can’t drive.” The dwarf yelled to another. 

“Break his nose again for me.” Someone called back cheerfully. He assumed it was Krak, but that was the last thought he had before something solid connected with his face, starting the blood flowing from his nose again, a burst of pain making his eyes water. 

“Sounds like somebody can’t take constructive criticism.” Varric huffed out in half a strangled laugh. 

“Does he never shut up?” A female voice asked irritably. “Ancestors, maybe we should have gagged him.” 

“The old lady wants him to talk.” A more menacing voice growled. 

“That is what I excel at.” Varric continued nonchalantly, tasting the blood seeping into his mouth. “Honestly, all this effort was wasted. All you fine upstanding dwarves needed to do was send an invitation, I’d have gladly come on my own.” 

Hawke was going to be furious. Ten years of him dodging assassination attempts in Kirkwall only to be kidnapped in Orlais? He’d never hear the end of it. That’s if there was anything left of him by the time she heard about it at all. He winced internally, trying to remember if he’d been in any worse spots lately. Being kidnapped by Cassandra had been pretty bad, but at least he’d been pretty sure the Seeker had too much honor to gut him. This crew…. 

He heard the click of gears and barely bit back his groan, but not his aggravation. “Hey hey, not just anyone can touch Bianca. She’s a sensitive lady.” 

“Never saw anything like this before.” One of the female voices said in awe. “Think we can keep it?” 

Over his dead body. Before he could retort appropriately, another voice clamored in. “Shit, Legs! Put it back, the old biddy said she’d double the payment if we gave her both of them in one piece.” 

Great, Varric thought. Just great. “Legs. Interesting nickname for a dwarf.” He chimed in. 

“Oh shut yer gob.” Someone sighed wearily. 

“I’ve got a question.” Somebody chimed in. “If you feel like talkin’. I read Tale of the Champion, and that whole thing with the mage at the end? Doesn’t make no bleedin’ sense.” 

“Everyone’s a critic.” Varric grumbled. 

“Oh, no ask about  _ her _ .” Someone else whispered. 

“Saw her once, y’know. Back before she was all high and mighty. Pub in Denerim, or maybe it was the brothel. Didn’t whats-his-name have a fling with her?” 

“With who?” 

“Cadash.  _ Inquisitor _ Cadash.” One of the girls laughed. Varric suddenly found himself very glad of the throbbing in his nose, it was a pleasant distraction. 

“Oh. Alder said he fucked her over a barrel six years ago, but he got his head smashed in by one of those chevaliers two months back.”

“Also, Alder was a fuckin’ liar.” Someone laughed brightly. 

“Well, you’re fucking her, aren’t you?” Varric felt an elbow jab into his arm. “That’s a story we wouldn’t mind hearing.” 

If Varric’s hands weren’t tied with what felt like a mile’s worth of rope, he’d reach up and strangle the man. Instead, he deflected as smoothly as possible. “I would never kiss and tell.” 

“Course not.” One of the women sniffed disdainfully. “Mighty deshyr admit to sleepin’ with a Carta girl? Ancestor’s forbid. Not like they all don’t have their pricks out first chance they get.” 

He couldn’t win. “News says you left her at Halamshiral holding the bag, Deshyr.” Another sharp jab to his arm. “That true?” 

He remembered her in the window, a flash of red in the glass. He swallowed a lump of emotion down, took a deep breath of the piss scented air inside the bag. “Whatever’s going on here, I don’t think the Inquisitor has anything to do with it, ladies and gentlemen.”

He wouldn’t talk about Maria. Not here, not with these vultures.  

“Of course you’d talk circles around it.” Someone muttered venomously. He didn’t flinch when warm breath tickled his ear and a soft voice fluttered through the cloth. “If the old lady doesn’t take your balls, I may. Serves you right for running out on a sister.” 

Varric didn’t need to ask who the old lady was. In his heart, he knew. He should have known the minute he saw Bianca’s name on that damn list. 

 

_ “Fixing provings?” Bianca asked with a laugh, looking up from her careful work. “Shit, Varric. You’re lucky they didn’t just kill your father. They take their provings far more seriously than they take anything else in Orzammar.”  _

_ “And what great sin did the Davris commit?” Varric asked with a shit-eating grin. “Passing off iron as silverite? Illegal nug racing?”  _

_ “Illegal nug racing.” Bianca snorted in delight, putting the gears she held down and pushing her soot stained hair away from her face. “How many people have been exiled to the surface for illegal nug racing?”  _

_ “It’s a good story!” Varric protested in self-defense. “Surely better than whatever got your grandmother kicked on up to the surface.”  _

_ She stroked down his naked jaw, shaking her head in delighted exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”  _

_ He moved his cheek to nip at her thumb playfully. “Answer the question, I’d hope. Don’t leave me in suspense.”  _

_ “They left on purpose, actually. Voluntarily, even. Guess the Davris just couldn’t resist the lure of the sunlight. Decided to make a brand new Orzammar up her on the surface with a bunch of other smith caste. We’d follow the rules just as if we were in Orzammar just… less darkspawn and chance of imminent death.” She shrugged carelessly. “See, you’re the only criminal element here.” _

_ Varric didn’t entirely believe that. Bianca’s eyes absolutely lit up with mischievous joy when he mentioned, in passing, there could be a chance of danger in any little misadventure. A part of him cautioned it was simply the joy of a woman experiencing the world out from under the heel of a domineering family, free for the first time. Perhaps the only time. Her caste-cleaving family had a match dreamt up, they were only finalizing the details.  _

_ Still, her face pressed against the hollow of his neck and her fingers danced up the collar of his shirt, tugging it gently. “My mother is coming to visit.  I’m going to tell her I don’t want to marry him.”  _

_ Varric’s heart stuttered. “Oh, grand. Should I start running now or later?”  _

_ “Scared?” Bianca teased, letting her hand drift under his shirt.  _

_ No, he wasn’t really. He didn’t know any better, then.  _

 

They tied him to a chair and left him in the silence with the damn bag still plastered over his head, fouled now with his own sweat and blood. The quiet was worse than the inane chatter that filled the last few hours. 

But past the stink of the bag, he thought he smelled something so familiar he stomach twisted. Iron, sulfur, coal. He pulled uselessly at the sturdy ropes holding him to the chair, but the only thing he succeeded in moving at all was the chair itself. He wondered, idly, if tipping it over may be helpful. He could at least get the damn bag off his head that way. 

Almost as soon as he thought it, the bag was ripped off, taking some of his hair with it. He swore inventively, blinking his eyes in the room that suddenly seemed far too bright before he made out the picture in front of him. The bark of laughter surprised even him.

He knew this place, knew it as well as he knew the Hanged Man. Astonishing, considering he never stepped foot in this forge before. But it was Bianca, the woman herself, made into a place. Half finished, partially abandoned, and sad looking mechanisms littered the room in organized chaos. Tools were lined up neatly and the floor was clean, except for a layer of dust disturbed only by footprints. 

But the thing that made him laugh was the banner over the fireplace. It was the combined crests of house Vasca and house Davri, the glorious match Bianca’s parents always wanted for their precocious daughter. Someone, Varric had a very good idea who, had taken a sword to the tapestry and slashed it to ribbons before firing several arrows at the thing. 

A statement piece if he ever saw one. Bianca’s last fuck you to her family.

“I like what she did to the place.” He groaned out through a mouthful of blood. Nobody could throw a good tantrum like Bianca when she’d been riled. The perks of genius, maybe. 

“Varric Tethras.” The sharp voice cut across the forge. “I admit, I was nearly fooled. I thought, perhaps, she’d let this childish infatuation finally die.” 

It did die. It died in the ashes of Kirkwall when Bianca stopped fucking writing, too mired in her own pain and grief to spare a thought for his. “Runa Davri, can’t say I’m particularly pleased to be seeing you again. I’d greet you properly, but I’m a little tied up.” 

She strode around the chair, the burlap sack falling from her hand onto the stones as she strode forward. She bound her hair up in elaborate braids, the blonde barely visible any longer, most of it cold gray. Her eyes were sharp and hard, the same brilliant turquoise color as Bianca’s. She held the beloved crossbow in her hands, examining it thoughtfully as she stood in front of him. 

“I forgot what a fine piece of work this was.” She muttered, setting it on one of the work tables. “Not her finest work, but quite clever.” 

Runa’s face was more lined than he remembered it and there was a definitive shake in her hands. Varric recognized it with a surge of clarity. His mother’s shook the same way when she was busy drinking herself into the grave.

Runa Davri had been a talented smith herself, way back when. Varric hadn’t kept up with what happened to her after Bianca left. Perhaps he should have. “Where’s my daughter, Tethras?” 

For the first time in his memory, he was able to be completely honest with Bianca’s mother. “No idea. Haven’t seen or heard from her in two and a half years. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong dwarf this time.” 

He had his own woman he needed to worry about, and it was almost comforting facing down Runa Davri. Less complicated than archdemons, darkspawn, and Solas, right? “In case you haven’t heard the rumors, I’ve been busy myself.” 

“Seducing a smuggler to help you.” Runa snarled, turning to the forge and bending over it. He caught the flicker of sparks as she struggled to ignite it. “I shouldn’t be shocked.” 

Varric spared a moment to wonder, bleakly, if maybe the stories about Andraste got it all wrong too. Maybe Maferath had a clever plan too, and it just fell apart. Maybe this was his punishment for leaving her wounded, broken on the balcony. He knew better than to abandon her then, didn’t he? 

“Andraste’s ass.” Varric swore as the fire finally swirled to life in the forge. “I didn’t seduce Maria to spirit Bianca out of here, are you insane?” 

“I simply wish to have my daughter home and safe.” Runa didn’t bother to turn back to him. “If you had a child, you would understand.” 

If he’d been lucky enough to have his child, he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t cage a brilliant young woman the way so many of them had been, the way Bianca had. They would have done it right, raised a girl who knew what it was like to have parents that loved each other. Knew what it was like to have a home not under constant threat of rival clans. A girl who wouldn’t learn to slit throats before her time. 

She’d have been free and wild, their Sunshine. His heart felt heavy with the loss of it, the loss of her. 

“Runa, I’m too old for this shit.” Varric twisted his hands in the ropes. “And you’re way too old for this shit too. Bianca left and it’s over, now let me go. I’m due to meet someone altogether nicer than you.” He was absolutely not going to leave Maria hanging in Val Chevin. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make it there. 

Runa picked up a hammer, testing its weight in her hand. “You’ll tell me where my daughter is if it’s the last thing you do.” 

 

Helpless. It wasn’t a word Varric liked the taste of, not one he used often in his stories. It didn’t fit Hawke or Maria, but Varric realized that in this situation, helpless pretty well covered it. The first blow from the hammer on his thigh caused his breath to rush out of his lungs. Every blow after that, to chest, shoulders, arms, legs, ribs, anywhere she could reach while he was helpless on the chair, brought forth a choked gasp or a bitten off shout.

Even if he had the information he wanted, she’d never get it from him. He didn’t owe Bianca much, not the woman she became anyway. But he saw the banner, remembered the girl she’d been, and yeah… he owed that one something. If he hadn’t fallen in love with her…

Hell, maybe she’d have tried to run off anyway and been dragged back kicking and screaming. Who knew.  

He didn’t beg either, it wouldn’t do for the trusty sidekick of the Champion of Kirkwall to beg. It wouldn’t do for the Inquisitor’s stalwart lover to plead. Neither of them would. Hawke laughed through the pain when she pulled the Arishok’s blade from her stomach, he could still hear it. Maria pushed herself up from her knees as the anchor choked the life out of her, the pain so great she could barely see straight. If they could handle that, Varric could handle this. Maybe this pain would make up for all the times he didn’t save Maria from hers. 

 

He hung from the rafters from at least one dislocated shoulder, breathing through the pain from his cracked ribs. Shallow breaths designed to cause the least amount of discomfort possible as he tried to think through his muddled, exhausted thoughts. 

His captors were taking a break, but for how long, only the Maker knew They’d be back and Varric so far hadn’t managed to talk his way out of it. The odds were against him from the start, Runa Davri wasn’t one to fall for his stories. The woman was too shrewd and bitter an opponent, one utterly familiar with his typical tricks. 

There were lockpicks in his jacket and if he could reach them, he could slip the shackles. His crossbow still laid untouched on the worktable. He’d have a fighting chance, even with one dislocated shoulder. If he could just figure out…

He thoughts paused when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He twisted his head to watch the familiar woman amble around the tables, sultry grace in every step, her hair shining bright red in the fading light falling through the large windows. 

Great, his turn to hallucinate. He must have taken a harder blow to the head than he thought. 

“Varric.” Maker, the creature in front of him even sounded like her. Her hair fell in gentle waves over her shoulders, loose the way she kept it when she didn’t see the need to leave her apartments. She wore a soft cream colored tunic, dark pants, her favorite doeskin boots. The blade Fynn Dunhark made her strapped to her right hip. 

But it wasn’t her, because this Maria had both hands, the anchor sputtering in her right palm the way it had when she first fell from the sky, no tendrils creeping over her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder. Still, he chuckled weakly in response. “Maria.” 

She smiled, a small twitch of her lips in one corner before it faded and she drew her soft gray eyes across him. She took in his bloody and bruised face, the blood stains on his tunic. “Think you can toss my lockpicks up here, Princess?” He asked idly. Hell, maybe his hallucinations would be as helpful as hers were. 

“I can’t.” She answered quietly, drawing closer to him. 

“It’s alright, love.” He tried to heave himself up by one shoulder, swore as it gave out. Maria watched him, silent and still. Too still, alarm bells rang in his mind and he stared down again into her bottomless eyes. 

Too still. Too calm. “Maria?” He questioned again. 

The hallucination wearing her face shook her head, continuing to smile gently as she reached up to touch his leg. “It’s alright.” She soothed, the touch easing the aches in his body. “She needed to remember. This is the surest way.” 

His head felt a little clearer, although he thought darkness prickled around the edges of his vision. He fought it back, focusing on the beloved face underneath him. “Needed to remember what?” He asked through gritted teeth. 

“Who she is.” The creature stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Who she loves. What she can do. She needs to remember she can fight and she needs a reason to, or else all is lost.” 

“If she keeps fighting, she might lose more than her arm.” Varric panted, twisting his fingers into the shackles, trying to pry them open. “Hasn’t she suffered enough?” 

He needed to stop talking to this hallucination, this soft thing with Maria’s eyes and Maria’s voice. But she simply sighed, shaking her red hair. “Oh Varric.” She muttered, casting her eyes up to the windows. “You know she can’t stop. You always knew.” 

Varric couldn’t find it in himself to argue any longer, allowing the darkness to steal him.

 

Nothing like waking up to a firm hit in the kidneys. The strangled grunt that escaped him served only to remind him of his cracked and dry throat, the bloody swollen lip. He swung from the ceiling, his shoulder protesting viciously. 

“Are you ready to talk yet?” Runa asked, nearly sweetly. 

“I’ve got nothing better to do. Just hanging around.” 

A terrible joke, but one of her hired muscle still snorted in amusement. Runa didn’t look amused, even through his nearly swollen black eye he could see how livid his answer made her. “Do you honestly think you can joke your way out of this? Your brother is not coming to save you, your Champion is not coming to save you.” 

“Yeah, Hawke said she’d never come back to Orlais and Bartrand and I fell out.” Varric mumbled, closing his eyes. “Sure that made you laugh.” 

“I have no desire to deal with the paperwork should I kill you.” Runa hissed venomously. 

“That should be the least of your worries.” Varric’s lip protested, but he grinned anyway despite the burning protest of split skin. “Let me go now and I’ll see if I can’t get a letter to Bianca telling her how much you miss her. She probably doesn’t give a damn after you let what’s-his-name treat her like a baby factory, but maybe she’s feeling nostalgic.” 

Runa turned to the forge, placing an iron rod into the flames. “I don’t think you realize what I’m capable of, Varric. I would do anything to see my daughter again.” 

And when Maria Cadash found out where he was, there wouldn’t be a thing that could stop her. “You’re about to make a pretty serious enemy, Runa.” 

Runa laughed, the sound echoing bitterly off the stone walls. “You expect me to believe the woman you left to the wolves, the one you used, is coming for you? Even if she is, I don’t fear her.” 

She faced the wolves on her own, her choice. Maria Cadash didn’t fear them, she fought dragons and demons. Orlesian nobles, the Merchant’s Guild, and Runa Davri were all child’s play to that. Runa kept talking. “Although it is just like you, to ruin a woman and leave her.” 

He vividly recalled the bloodstained sheets, the way Maria trembled underneath him. The guilt hit him harder than the next punch, the one that left him choking on pained gasps as he swung. But then his mind conjured another memory, one that burned even brighter. A qunari mage with a fistful of fire, hauling off his feet and letting him dangle helplessly in the air. 

A green arrow from nowhere pierced the Qunari’s throat. A fatal wound, one that caused it to drop him, to spin…

Varric remembered her, the mirror swirling with a million colors behind her, bow in hand. A perfect moment of stillness, an image forever captured. Her eyes hard and furious, daring the mage to make a move. The arrow ready, her hair coming undone in a mess around her face. Blood sliding down the arm that burned up, dripping to the stone at her feet. 

The last arrow she fired, the one to save his life because she loved him. She loved him the way only Maria was capable of loving, fully. Unselfishly. Furiously. 

“You should be afraid of her.” Varric warned hoarsely. She wasn’t ruined. Nothing could ruin her. 

His hallucination was right. He knew Maria, knew her strength and her heart. He knew she couldn’t stop fighting, would never stop. She was built to wage battles, to make the world a better place. 

“Do your worst, Runa.” Varric taunted. “Don’t leave me hanging.”  


	29. The Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man wearing her father’s face said he could make her fight. He said he’d provide the miracles. 
> 
> Maria Cadash only needs a spark to catch aflame.

“What’s that called?” 

“Dawn Lotus.” Anders explained patiently to the child clinging onto his back. “You helped me pull this up from the stream, remember? We need a bit more, though...”

“It was forever ago.” The boy chirped in response. 

“It was yesterday!” Anders laughed, shook his blonde head with an easy smile. “Maker, where did your mother go?” 

“She flew away.” Kai grinned, pointing up to the sky. “Can we go to the stream again? Please?” 

“You just want to get more of those lizards.” Anders accused with barely concealed laughter, shifting the child up higher so he could bend over and root in the pack. “Your mother should try turning into one of those for a change, hm?” 

“Ewww, slimy!” The child squealed, equal parts delighted and horrified. 

Dorian sighed wearily and impatiently, aggravated by the shrill sound behind him. Childish antics were a detriment to a serious scholar, such as himself. He sat on the ground, back against a tree trunk, shuffling through the papers. Maria monitored the rest of camp from the corner of her eye as she threw her blades into another trunk. She smoothed her hand down her right shoulder in aggravation, trying to soothe the burning sensation over her skin. Like bugs, she thought numbly, chewing on a limb that wasn’t even there. 

Maria bent to pick up another blade impatiently, tossing it up in the air once, twice. Then she threw it was as much force as she could manage. It embedded itself solidly into the tree trunk instead of joining her failures at the bottom of the tree. 

She wished she could say she was getting better, but she wasn’t sure. They’d been traveling with Chantal’s small group since they’d joined, allowing Dorian to peruse the materials Chantal had. Elven lore, old warden tomes, a small library of obscure knowledge. Maria wanted to use the time to get used to her new body, but it wasn’t working. 

She heard the beating of wings in the air before she saw the bird land lightly on the ground, something white in its talons. It cawed once, but by the time Maria turned her full attention to it, Chantal Amell was brushing dirt off her breeches, the little white bundle at her feet. 

“Mama!” Kai called from his perch on the warden turned murderer turned healer turned babysitter. “Can we go to the stream?” 

“In a moment love.” Chantal called back, bending to retrieve her burden. “I left a note in one of Leliana’s drops in Verchiel to let her know you’re well. I also retrieved these for you.” 

Chantal held out the white bundle with a shy smile. Wearily, Maria held out her hand and Chantal deftly untied the cloth, revealing two honey cakes sandwiched together. They were cool, but even so Maria could smell them. Vanilla, sugar, fresh sweet icing.  

“You could have brought wine too. If you were making purchases.” Dorian complained good naturedly. 

“I’d have had to turn into a bear to get the wine bottle back. Or the cat. Not very discreet, I’m afraid.” Chantal shrugged with an innocent smile. “You haven’t been eating, but… I think Leliana mentioned in one of her letters you had a sweet tooth?” 

Varric told her once it was common knowledge that the Inquisitor craved sweets, that her alchemists sweetened up her potions for her. No wonder it was, if Leliana felt it was fine to share. 

“A cat?” Dorian asked curiously. “That seems less than useful. The bear and the bird I understand, but…” 

Anders chuckled from behind them. “It’s a rather large cat.” 

Maria examined the little cakes critically. Kai appeared beside Chantal, his small head just about level with her hand, eyes lighting up when he saw the cakes. “Can I have one?” He asked greedily.

“They’re not for you.” Chantal stated firmly, but Maria lowered her hand immediately, offering the cakes as Chantal sighed wearily. “You may have one.” Chantal corrected. 

“Thank you Maria.” Kai chirped, taking one of the cakes. 

“Now eat the other one.” Dorian ordered waspishly. 

“Hey, what happened to your other hand?” Kai asked as he shoved the cake into his mouth. His bright eyes met hers, innocent, curious. 

Maria mouth went dry and she looked away immediately. Chantal took a deep, steady breath before she answered when it was obvious Maria wouldn’t. “She was injured, mijito. Like my scar, si?” Chantal indicated the jagged cut on her face and Kai nodded, accepting. 

“You throw the knives good.” The boy said seriously. “Not like papa, but good. Better than Nate.” 

“I’m an archer.” Howe grumbled fondly from his spot. 

So was she. Her heart clenched and she bit her lip, hard enough to taste blood. 

“Maria.” Dorian called softly, tucking his papers aside. She couldn’t bear the gentle sympathy in his tone, it poured through the cracks inside her like sand, irritating all the rawest parts of her soul. It reminded her of all the things she wouldn’t be, all the things that died in the Crossroads. 

“We should be going, soon. Dorian’s almost done reading.” Her voice sounded wrong in her own ears, too cool, too distant. Reflected in Kai’s dark eyes, she looked like a lifeless doll. She pressed the other cake into his grasping hands, turning away quickly. “You can have the other one too.”

“Mama?” The child queried, and she could picture him looking up in concern at Chantal behind her as she marched up to the tree, wanting an explanation for what happened. 

“Come on love.” Chantal said simply, sadly. “We’ll go to the stream.” 

“Maria.” Dorian sighed her name wearily, standing now, his voice coming closer as Chantal retreated into the woods with her son. “If you starve to death before I return you safely to your sister and our dear Varric, I’m going to be in an uncomfortable amount of danger. Please eat something.” 

Dorian asked Chantal to bring back the cakes. She should have known. She wrenched one of her knives from the bark of the tree. “Dorian, stop it.” 

“Venhedis, will you please just  _ look _ at me.” Dorian begged. One of the blades was stuck, she wriggled it back and forth intently, ignoring Dorian behind her. She should have known better, Dorian wasn’t made to be ignored. He couldn’t stand it. 

Dorian’s hand clamped down on her right shoulder, the one with the angry new scars tracing up over her pale, freckled skin. Even under the tunic she wore, the touch sent a surge of agony down protesting muscles and raw skin. She whipped away from him, the knife flying loose from the bark, dropping from her fingers. 

She meant to catch it properly, but her fingers weren’t quite deft enough. The blade sliced through her palm effortlessly, dug deep into the skin of her one remaining hand. She cried out in shock, letting it fall to the dirt while the blood welled up between her fingers. 

An accident, a part of her whispered. Blood pooled in rivulets down her wrist, dripped onto the dirt. The dirt, she reminded herself, not the hard stones of the Crossroads, not the bed with the crisp white sheets where she’d given up hope. 

Dorian’s tan fingers were already pulling her hand towards him, apologetic and concerned, but she pulled it back, curled it into a fist that throbbed, blood squeezing through her fingers.

Her voice trembled. “Haven’t I bled enough yet, Dorian?” 

It would have been kinder if she shoved the bloody knife between his ribs. The pain lanced up her shoulder with a fury, matched the pain reflected in every line of his face. He mumbled something in Tevene, something soft and soothing and she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it. 

“Don’t you know I love you too?” Cole translated unhelpfully. “I can’t stand to see you like this.” 

“Well, gotta love a cheerful dose of angst in the morning.” Anders broke in. She couldn’t remember him striding over, but he held out both his palms, a gesture of supplication. “Perhaps I should look at that before it gets infected. You know, you only have one now.” 

No, she didn’t want that either. She closed her eyes, focused on the pulsing beat of her heart hammering in her head. Maker, why wouldn’t they just… 

“Please, Maria.” Dorian whispered, his voice all broken shards and sorrow. It was the same way he spoke to his father, disappointed and sad. “Please, just… allow him to see to it. And if he is to do that, perhaps… it would be remiss to disallow him to check everything else.” 

She wondered what the price was for breaking as many hearts as she seemed to. It seemed only fitting the abyss inside her should choke out all the life from everyone else before she finally succumbed to it. 

“It’s alright, Maria.” 

Cole’s voice echoed her own words said to him a hundred times. It’s alright, Cole. It’s simply a demon, we’ll kill it. It’s only Cullen’s way of showing he cares, Cassandra did love her gift, promise, it’s alright. It’s alright. When she said it to Cole, what she really meant was “I love you.” When Cole said it back to her, she heard the same thing underneath it. I love you, it’s alright. I love you. 

“Fine then.” If they felt their love could wear away at this defeat, this broken husk of a thing left behind in the fire, then they could try. “Fine.” 

 

Anders dumped cold, clean water over her hand to get rid of the blood. He hummed something under his breath, something disturbingly jaunty. She thought she heard it in a tavern, once, a long time ago. He knelt beside her while she sat on a log next to their smouldering fire. “Easy enough, this.” Anders grinned into her face, both awkward and charming. “I do silly voices when I heal up Kai’s scrapes. Want me to do them for you?” 

“Are you good at healing up your own knife wounds?” She asked darkly. Anders laughed, albeit nervously.

“Sweetheart, I’m beginning to understand why Fenris liked you so much.” 

“Call her sweetheart again.” Dorian huffed. “I would like to see what happens when a man has his tongue ripped from his mouth.” 

Her fingers twitched when the magic started to seep into her skin. She waited for the painful tingling from the anchor, holding her breath as the magic laced through her cut flesh, a warm wash of power that reminded her of Hawke. 

Her missing arm tingled, but the anchor didn’t react to the magic being poured into her. Maybe it really was gone, she hadn’t been sure, hadn’t dared hope there wouldn’t be some lingering effect. 

“Ta-da!” Anders announced with a flourish, tracing his thumb against a tiny pink line, no larger than a scratch. “I’ll come back to it if I’ve got the energy after I look at the rest of this.” 

Her skin crawled with his touch but she bit her tongue. Anders looked at her, tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “Could I convince you to take your shirt off?” 

“Do you need it off?” 

“It’d make it easier.” Anders shrugged. “Promise on my grey warden honor, no inappropriate touching.” 

Maria didn’t move. Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and Cole twisted the edge of his tunic. At the very least Howe busied himself as far away as possible, and Chantal had the boy at the stream, and… 

Maker, Dorian and Cole had seen her unclothed. Half of Skyhold probably had the way she was nearly constantly interrupted with work  no matter what (or who) she was doing. She’d whipped off her shirt hundred of times while out in the field, had no reason to feel ashamed, except… 

“I can help.” Cole offered softly. She didn’t know what form his help was going to take, was almost afraid to ask. 

“I promise as… as a favor to a man who did better for me than I did for him.” Anders eyes were suddenly very serious. “Let me… let me try to fix something. For Varric.” 

She made the decision before she could think much more about it, tugging impatiently at the laces at her neck, loosening them just enough to reach down with her one hand and tug the cotton awkwardly halfway up. Her other arm, too stiff, too sore to cooperate. 

Cole reached out immediately, gentle, tugging the cloth loose and smoothing it over his arms nervously as Maria revealed the length of her battered body. She couldn’t look at the stub of her arm, but she also couldn’t avoid the scars climbing over her shoulder, fading as they crossed her chest. 

“What happened?” Anders asked, clinical and detached.

“My arm exploded.” She stated lifelessly. She thought that much was obvious. 

“The anchor was spreading from nearly the moment she emerged with it embedded in her hand.” Dorian jumped it with the detailed explanation. “We noticed it at Adamant, the magic pushed through her skin when she opened a rift to save us from certain disaster. It continued to grow, more quickly after she sealed the breach.” 

“It hurt.” Cole muttered. “It always hurt, but it got worse.” 

“The mark degraded, spiraled out of her control. It… it was quite bad.” Dorian choked on an emotion that twisted his features into those of an old man for a moment. “There was nothing we could do to stop it. We theorized that cutting it off would cause a calamity nearly of the sort that caused the anchor in the first place. It was not something that could be risked.” 

“But you did risk it.” Anders pointed out. “Someone cut through bone, quite cleanly.” 

“Yes.” Cole whispered. “Cleaned his blade first. Wouldn’t touch her with their blood. Vashedan, cowards…” 

She didn’t know it had been Bull. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know it had been Bull. She closed her eyes, tight, against the thought of his greatsword slicing through her arm, the one that sliced down hundreds of enemies for her. Her big shield for a little dwarf. 

“By then, the magic was gone. It had burned through her skin, there was nothing left but ash.” Dorian said quietly. “We didn’t wish to risk the corrupted tissue spreading. I cauterized it, another Enchanter had some small skill with simple healing spells. We wouldn’t risk an Orlesian healer, not with… well, we had other problems.”

“Right.” Anders sighed heavily. “Well, the good news is, you’re definitely going to live. Unless you plan on starving yourself to death, that is.” 

Maria didn’t know if that was good news, but Ander’s careful fingers were already brushing the stub of her arm. She tensed, crushed her eyes closed tighter. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t…

“Does he bring the crossbow to bed?” 

Her eyes flew open immediately, glaring at the laughing honey eyes of the healer. “Isabela and I had a bet. You’re probably one of the only people who knows the answer.” 

“For fuck’s sake.” She blurted out in exasperation. Anders grinned even more broadly. 

“I bet that it sat on the mantle until he was done, then he cuddled it in sweet apology while muttering that she was the only one that meant anything. Then he took it apart and oiled it nice and carefully, to make it up to her.” 

“And Isabela thought he involved the contraption in the act?” Dorian scoffed. “How does that work?” 

“She had several interesting and improbable theories about where he put it.” Anders continued serenely. Maria opened her mouth to say something, anything…

But the distraction worked and before she could even realize she’d relaxed by a degree, Anders’s magic surged into her. Then, just as quickly, he shook his head. “Sorry, just wanted to take a peek before I started. This is…” His expression darkened. “This is bad. Ruptured blood vessels, torn muscles, nerve damage. I haven’t seen anything this ugly since we left Oghren in Ferelden.” 

Howe snorted in amusement. Maria didn’t get the joke, but Anders shifted away from her, shaking his head. “You’re going to need to lay down, and I need to go dig in Chantal’s stuff for lyrium.” 

“I have some.” Dorian unlaced his pouch and Cole spread out her cloak on the ground, smiling sweetly, shyly up at her. The same way he looked for her approval when he brought her coffee. Maria didn’t have the energy to return his smile, could do nothing but allow herself to be herded like a weak kitten. 

When she laid back on the ground, the necklace fell onto the cloth beside her neck. Anders eyes flicked to it as he knelt beside her. “He’s serious about you, isn’t he?” 

“For luck.” Cole whispered as Maria turned her face away. “As long as I’ve got both of you I’m…” 

Varric’s words in Cole’s mouth. His hand touching her stomach, smiling fondly down into her face. She wore the blue tunic, the one Josie said brought out her eyes. He offered to sneak her out the back and she refused because she thought she could save her Inquisition. She thought it  _ mattered _ . She’d been wrong. So very, very wrong. “Cole, stop.” 

Even she heard the break in her voice, the chasm of despair underneath it. She should have left, she should have gone with him. The anchor may still have killed her, but she might have had time. She may have… 

Ander’s magic sunk into her skin, a warm balm that reminded her, in a panic, of how her arm felt as it burned up. Her breath hitched, waiting for the inescapable surge of burning pain that came next. 

“Please  _ try _ to relax.” Anders muttered. “If you survived this, somehow, a little healing isn’t going to hurt you.” 

Cole’s fingers tangled in her left hand. They were cool against her skin and he squeezed gently, his hat shadowing her face. 

“She should be dead.” Anders spoke softly, to Dorian she guessed. “This… I don’t know how she got back up. How she’s been walking around. I’ve seen men reduced to sniveling children by half this damage.” He sounded like he was in awe, but all she could latch onto were those words. She should be dead, yes. That seemed correct. 

“She’s stubborn.” Dorian muttered, but he sounded proud underneath it. She didn’t know why. “Right, Cadash?” 

She didn’t answer but she allowed herself to grip Cole’s hand tighter as the magic moved up, a slow steady wave. Anders hissed when he got to her shoulder. She heard the clink of the lyrium bottle, smelled the piercing clean, metallic smell of it when he uncorked it. 

“It was moving towards her heart.” Anders observed. “The scars don’t go that far, but I can feel it. The muscles… there was damage.” 

Yes, she knew her heart was broken. He didn’t need to point it out. 

“Fixable?” Dorian asked. 

“By your average healer? No. But, I’m rather exceptional.” Anders preened. 

She was starting to feel tired again. She closed her eyes wearily, letting the wave flow over her chest. She felt something loosening she didn’t even realize was tight, a stutter in the rhythm of her heart beat itself back into proper sequence. Then the magic rolled lower, seeking, searching…

“Stop.” The command didn’t sound like a command and nobody paid it any mind except Cole, who squeezed her fingers back gently. 

“Just checking to see if there’s anything…” 

She knew when he felt it. Everything inside her, the magic swirling through her, stopped cold in her stomach. She didn’t know what he saw, exactly. Maybe it was the empty vacuum she felt where once…

Varric was happy if he had both of them. That’s what he said. 

“Sweet Andraste.” Anders whispered in horror. “Did you know? Does Varric?” 

She choked on a sob, unable to look at anything but the darkness inside her own eyelids, the abyss inside her own soul. 

“Yes.” Dorian answered wearily. “We knew.” 

He sounded like an old man. He sounded like his father. Defeated, bitter. Hopeless. 

“Howe!” Anders shouted. Maria didn’t hear the other man’s response over the sobs, quiet, broken things that ripped her from under Anders’s grip, that made her curl into her good side. 

“No.” Cole whispered in wonder, in awe. 

“Howe, damnit. Get me some of that honey from Chantal’s stash. I need ginger, too. If we have it. And see if you can toast some bread.” Anders was pressing his fingers against her stump of an arm again, but it didn’t hurt. At least there was that. 

“Leave me alone.” She begged, breathless, between sobs. 

“Yeah, well. I’m not.” Anders huffed, the magic spiraling back through her to that empty, aching space.

“I think that is enough for now.” Dorian interrupted sadly. “Perhaps…” 

“But it’s still there.” Cole was smiling, she could hear it in his voice. “Heartbeat that isn’t hers. Soft, a flicker. Small, but safe. Safe.” 

She heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. They didn’t make sense at all. She tossed them around in her head, let them bounce around the hollow void of her heart. 

“That… that is impossible.” Dorian’s voice shook. “You’re wrong.” 

“I’m  _ never _ wrong.” Anders corrected. “Or, well, at least about this kind of stuff. Here, here…” Without further ado, Maria felt two large hands over her stomach even as she tried to curl further in. 

“Do you feel it?” Anders asked, the mana spilling from him, through Dorian, through her. 

Through the flicker inside her in the void. 

“Andraste’s blushing buttcheeks.” Dorian laughed, the sound out of place, wrong. It was a laugh of wild relief. 

Then Anders was shoved out of the way and Dorian was embracing her, burning warm against the line of her back. “You mad, impossible, brilliant creature.” 

A spark illuminated the abyss inside her when Dorian laughed into her shoulder, his hand resting tight against her abdomen. She couldn’t hope. She couldn’t… “Dorian, it can’t…” 

Tears still wet her cheeks, slicked her eyelashes together into points. She could hardly breathe past the emotions clawing up her throat. Panic, relief, despair,  _ joy _ . Dorian was crying too, she could feel his tears on her bare shoulder. “Of course. How dare we doubt it, hm?” He teased, his voice breaking on every syllable. “Our little warrior, just like it’s mother. Too stubborn to know better.” 

The sobs broke again, but she didn’t even know why she was sobbing now. She twisted, buried her face into Dorian’s broad chest, pressed her hand over his as she keened, rocking against him. Words were falling from her lips, protestations that she couldn’t, she only had one arm, this couldn’t be real, she was dreaming. Dreaming and she’d hear a wolf howl somewhere in the distance. 

“Marguerite.” Cole’s hushed voice trembled with awe. “Growing in the sunshine in the gardens. Kirkwall at her feet.”

Kirkwall. 

_ Varric _ . 

Skyhold, Solas. The Maker and Andraste. Cassandra’s protestation that she knew, she  _ knew _ .

The man wearing her father’s face said he could make her fight. He said he’d provide the miracles. 

“Varric.” His name felt right again, like it hadn’t since before that last awful dive into the Crossroads. Sparks drifted up from the fire Howe was banking up. She thought she felt them catch fire inside her soul. “I have to…” 

She could fix this. Maybe not all of it, but she could dust off the shattered pieces of Varric’s heart and hand them back to him. She could… 

Could she stop a would be god? Could she stop Solas with one hand and her (less stunning now) good looks? 

No, a part of her whispered from the shadows.

Maybe, another part answered, a tremor of hope in the darkness. 

“You have to eat.” Anders directed. “And I need to finish looking at you.” 

“Is it alright?” Her tongue felt clumsy and her hand shot out to grab his arm. “Is it…” 

“The fetus itself looks normal.” Anders placed his hand on her lower back, considering. “Some swelling around the uterus, nothing I can’t take care of. Sweetheart, as long as you don’t starve it to death, I’d say we can expect a little ball of chest hair in…” 

She didn’t let him finish. She didn’t care. If he asked her, she’d help him blow up Halamshiral. She threw her remaining arm around his neck, choked him in her grip as she embraced him. “Thank you.” She whispered, numb with shock, dazed, bewildered,  _ thrilled _ . She couldn’t blink the tears away fast enough. She didn’t execute him. She hadn’t wanted to anyway, she hated executions, but she was supposed to. The Inquisitor was supposed to. Luckily, she wasn’t the Inquisitor. Not anymore. “Thank you.” 

“Is she strangling him?” Chantal asked from where she emerged from the forest, one hand clasping her son’s, the other cradling a bushel of dawn lotus and spindleweed. Kai clutched a fistful of dirty rocks and Maria laughed at the sight, the sound too harsh, but it fanned the spark inside her. 

“No.” Howe was smiling. “I think, perhaps, Anders has finally not made a mess of something.” 

“Shocking.” Anders strangled reply was also full of mirth. “I’m as surprised as you lot, honestly.” 

 

_ She didn’t go back to the house while Nanna was there, sneaking in only when she knew the woman was out to grab whatever she wanted or needed. Nanna didn’t step foot near Fynn’s forge, but somehow, business kept going. Mostly, Maria thought wryly, because both of them resorted to using Bea to relay messages.  _

_ Bea didn’t particularly care for the arrangement, leading to a rather severe uptick in Bea pickpocketing both Carta contacts, their own workers, and of course Fynn. The only one who didn’t complain about it, however, was Fynn. Thank Andraste for his patience.  _

_ “Magpie, Pyrophite’s toxic when it’s untreated.” He rumbled as Bea slipped a shining square of metal into her jacket pocket. “If you leave it up against bare skin, you’re going to get a rash.”  _

_ Bea rolled her eyes and retrieved the small square, dropping it with a clatter on the table.  _

_ “Tell Nanna I’ll handle that shipment to Markham.” Maria instructed, rolling up one of her letters.  _

_ “Can you… just come home and tell her?” Bea whined, trailing after Maria. “I’m not your raven.”  _

_ “Is she ready to apologize?” Maria asked. Bea sighed, as long-suffering as if she was twice her age. “I didn’t think so.”  _

_ She was going on nearly two months without seeing her grandmother. At first, she divided her time up between Fynn’s forge and the motley assortment of taverns she frequented. But...slowly, it just got easier to keep coming back to Fynn’s night after night, to slip in his back door with the key he gave her, to sit with him and spin stories and share drinks, or when he’d gone to bed already, to sink in beside him and wake tangled in his arms.  _

_ “Right then.” Bea wilted. “See you down at the docks.”  _

_ “Don’t steal anymore coin from Pete’s crew or he won’t work with us anymore.” She reprimanded.  _

_ “Not the boss of me, Maria.” Bea replied in a lilting sing-song, picking up another piece of metal and examining it closely.  _

_ “Yes I am.” Maria stated severely, twisting Bea towards the door with one arm. “I’ll stop and get you something to eat, though.” _

_ “Oh! That place that puts lamb on a stick?” Maria fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.  _

_ “Sure, if that’s what you want.” She sighed, dropping a kiss to Bea’s temple and taking back the piece of metal from her hand. “Now, go. I’ll see you in a bit.”  _

_ The bell on the door clanged as Bea wandered out into the late afternoon. Maria stretched, casting a critical gaze around the forge. All the apprentices had gone home for the day, Fynn would be finishing up soon. _

_ “You could choose not to commit crime tonight. I’ll make you dinner instead.” He offered darkly, pushing his hair from his sweat stained brow.  _

_ “With your cooking, I’d prefer taking my chances with the criminal element.” She teased, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Fynn sat his hammer down heavily, turning to take her in. “Maria…”  _

_ “Do you know how handsome you look when you’re about to lecture me?”  _

_ He laughed, the tension breaking instantaneously. “You’re mad. Raving mad.”  _

_ “Sounds like the perfect temperament for a criminal.” She winked roguishly, humming as she picked up her coat. “I’ll be back early tonight. Unless you want me to go sleep in the pub.”  _

_ “You’re better than smuggling lyrium.” He muttered darkly. “And better than sleeping in the pub like an urchin.”  _

_ She laughed this time. “I’m sure lots of street urchins would be glad to sleep in the pub, Fynn.”  _

_ He held his arm out and she slipped to his side, brushing her lips against his cheek. “Besides, we both know I’d be hopeless at smithing. I’ve not got the patience.”  _

_ Fynn huffed in agreement, tipping her chin to his lips. “Not smithing.” He agreed. “But you’re better than this and you know it.”  _

_ She didn’t, but she almost believed him when he said it. His eyes dropped from her to the folded letter beside his hammer, the one Bea’s arrival distracted them from. A demand from Fynn’s father, furious and impatient, that Fynn stop avoiding the guild dinners. “You’re better than them.” She said in return, pressing her lips to his. “I see you, Fynn.”  _

_ He smiled into her kiss, the smile that was soft, sweet. Her smile, the one he only gave to her. “I see you.” He repeated gently. “I’ll wait up.”  _

 

_ She didn’t care for the roasted bits of meat on sticks covered in sticky spicy sauce, but if it would make Bea happy, Maria guessed she owed her. At least they smelled somewhat fresh that evening, the scent wafting from the little cart, the meat sizzling inside.  _

_ She wound a piece of hair around her finger as she waited, watching the comings and goings on either side of her. She saw the guards approaching, a trio of burly men in clanking plate armor and chainmail, but she didn’t consider anything might be amiss. Didn’t think to wonder until one slid behind her and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.  _

_ “Serah Cadash?” He questioned in a low voice, his gauntlets digging into her right shoulder. With an air of practiced innocence, Maria looked up, eyes wide.  _

_ “Yes messere?” She simpered dumbly, a ploy she wasn’t sure would work. This was a mistake, surely. Nanna wouldn’t forget to pay them off.  _

_ “You need to come with us, girl.” One of the other men growled, grabbing her upper left arm.  _

_ Well, at least Bea would notice when she didn’t show up. Maria batted her eyelashes up at them as they pulled her from the line.  _

_ “I’m always glad to help.” She pleaded innocently with a smile. “I so respect the efforts the guards make to keep us safe here in Ostwick.” _

_ “Shut up Carta slut.”  _

_ Maria choked on a flash of anger and the sick dread that rose up her throat. They were steering her towards a coach and fear made her braver than perhaps was wise. She couldn’t get in a coach with them, couldn’t risk being forced out of Ostwick. If they threw her in lockup, that was all well and good, Nanna would find her there, but if she ended up in a shallow grave outside the city…  _

_ She feinted to the right as if she’d twist from their grip, then pulled suddenly to the left. The move shocked the one holding onto her arm, causing him to let go, but not the man with his claws in her shoulder. He tightened his grip and snarled violently before he pitched her forward onto the cobblestones.  _

_ She pushed herself up to her knees as quickly as she could, but the guard’s gauntlet was in her hair, pulling her back to her feet and then his other fist slammed into her face so hard her eyesight swirled, warbled. She tasted blood on her lip, could feel a throbbing in her jaw that brought tears to her eyes.  _

_ Still, she fought. Her elbow ached from where she shoved it into chainmail. She kicked, she screamed. She saw an urchin, Maker she hoped it was one she paid to watch, streak off. It didn’t help her at the moment. She couldn’t draw her bow against guardsmen in the street and even if she could, she was already boxed in by three smelly, gangly humans, easily two whole feet taller than her apiece. Two of them picked her clean up off the street and threw her into the carriage, slammed the door behind them. A bolt slid into a lock and Maria fought the urge to scream in frustration.  _

_ “Sorry, girl.” A man’s amused voice drawled. “I’d have sent an invitation, but I knew you wouldn’t come. Not for me, anyway.”  _

_ Her skin erupted into gooseflesh and she looked up from the floor of the coach directly into hard, cold eyes set in an old, tired man’s face. He tutted in exasperation, reaching out for her chin. She jerked away quickly, pushed herself into the farthest corner of the coach she could get into, as far away from Fynn’s father and his covetous glare as possible.  _

_ “Told the bastards not to mark up your face. Humans, right?” He sighed wearily, settling back into the seat. “We need to talk, girl. Make yourself comfortable.”  _

 

“You have to wake up.” Cole whispered urgently, his fingers gentle on her face. “He’s in danger.” 

“Cole?” She groaned, pushed herself up rather more smoothly than she had in days. She ached still, soreness lingering from hours sleeping on the ground. “Sweetheart, what is it? Who…?” Without thinking, she brought her hand to her stomach, sheltering the small fragile life that still grew. 

Cole pressed his finger against her mouth, angling his shadowy head towards the forest and standing, beckoning her to follow. Maria pushed away from her bedroll, leaving Dorian’s sleeping form. She tugged her boots on quickly, letting Cole take her hand and pull her quietly into the shadows.

She heard them before she saw them. A gentle whispering she couldn’t quite make out, then one shape suddenly clarifying into two different figures at the edge of the trees. An elf, his sharp features angled down towards Chantal. She had her hands on his chest, his rested on her waist, both of them pressed as close together as they could be while they spoke. 

It was a sweet moment, one that hit a chord in her heart, especially when one of the elf’s hands brushed a lock of loose hair from Chantal’s face, back behind her ear. She couldn’t imagine why Cole dragged her out to observe this reunion, not until she heard a fragment of the conversation in Chantal’s low, careful voice. “Anders won’t like it, I’m afraid. But I can’t see any way to keep her from chasing him down. I would go if I were her.”

“Of that, mi amor, I’ve no doubt.” The elf laughed, deep in his throat, voice dripping like fine wine. “If I thought it prudent, I’d have tried to extract him myself. Unfortunately, these look the type to kill a hostage if provoked.” 

“Of course they do.” Chantal murmured. “Zev… this is a right mess.” 

“At least it is not us this time, si?” He asked cheerfully. 

Maria felt something cold sink into her stomach, a block of icy fear that made her step forward boldly. The two lovers in the trees drew apart almost guiltily, as if used to being caught. “What’s happened?” 

Chantal called a ball of light to her hand, let it illuminate the space around them. Her dark eyes surged with sympathy. “Don’t panic.” She began.

Maria swallowed, hard, moving her hand to cover her stomach again, to shield it. “I won’t.”

Maria Cadash didn’t panic. She fought. She fought tooth and nail, just like the baby inside her had. “I won’t.” 


	30. The Golem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue goes awry.

Runa Davri was dying. Varric should have seen it earlier. The shaking fingers were only one sign. Added with the yellowed skin, the spiderlike veins dark under her skin… well, it wouldn’t be long. She went and drank herself into a grave the same way his mother had. 

But Varric loved his mother, stayed beside her when she died. He spun a long, impossible story, never quite finishing it. Each day, he came back with a new bizarre plot twist. Each day, his mother listened attentively. It was Varric’s first true tale. He never finished it, even when her breaths came uneven and she didn’t know who he was, he didn’t finish it. Varric never finished his story because he thought, childishly, his mother would stay alive to hear the end. She still died. Varric didn’t think Runa had anyone left to sit at her bedside and try to keep her alive. It didn’t matter really,everyone died alone in the end. Including, quite possibly, him. It didn’t matter if the story was finished or not. 

He felt the infection in his blood. Something had entered his body while the Carta thugs and Runa Davri tried their best to gut him enough to get him to talk. He was sure Hawke could brew up something for it in a heartbeat, right after she came and hauled him down from the rafters by his ear, but the chances of seeing Hawke again were looking slim. 

She had Fenris though, and Fledgling. Hawke would be alright. He was more worried about Maria. Which was probably why his fever addled mind kept conjuring her. 

Over Runa’s shoulder, the figment of his imagination flickered on the table next to the crossbow named after his first love. Maria had daisies in her hands, strewn over her lap. He was reminded of that day he surprised her in the storeroom, making flower crowns with Cole. She was humming, off key, under her breath as the other dwarves, the real ones, talked in low whispers. “Varric?” She asked quietly, breaking off her work to look at him. 

“Yeah, Princess?” He grunted. The dwarves below him quieted, looked at each other uneasily. He heard someone whisper the word fever. 

Her sultry laugh was more pleasant to listen to, her smile pleased and infectious. “I don’t know why I let you get away with that. Princess. Of all the ridiculous nicknames…” 

She was his princess. Always would be. He’d have given her a kingdom, a crown, anything she wanted. 

“It won’t be long now.” She lifted her eyes to the window, as if to gauge the passing of time. Varric wasn’t sure how long he’d been here now either. A few days, at least. She nodded to herself, setting her jaw in a strong line of determination before turning her attention back to him. Fire danced in her eyes, a roaring inferno of tumultuous passion. 

“Open your mouth, Tethras.” One of the carta thugs growled, shoving elfroot into his mouth until he gagged. 

 

He woke back up in the chair to darkness, his head throbbing. Sweat ran down his temples, his skin, stuck the grime and blood to him. He swore he could hear the tinkling of crystal wine glasses, saw Maria glide through the forge in her white dress, the one she stunned in so beautifully at Halamshiral. The sounds were the same, the low murmur of nobles that he couldn’t see. A high pitched laugh. But nobody was there, only Maria in her white dress. But this time, it was covered in blood stains. She had soot and ash all over her face as she knelt in front of him.

“Love you.” He whispered hoarsely. She smiled, shifted. He noticed her arm was gone, angry red scars tracing down the bare skin. 

“I know.” She placed her remaining elbow on his thigh, craned her head to look up at him. She was dressed in blood, but she had the face of an angel. The face of Andraste herself kneeling at his feet as he shivered with a sudden chill, tried to move his aching hands. He coughed, wheezed. She placed her hand over his heart, frowned. “Just a bit longer, handsome.” 

“Anything for you, Princess.” He swore he could feel her calloused fingers over his chest. When she pulled them away, they were covered in blood as well. She frowned at them. 

“I’ll make them pay for this.” She whispered bowing her head, a deity of vengeance with shaking hands. 

“I know you will.” He murmured weakly. She ended wars single handedly, brought would be gods to their knees, closed holes in the heavens. Of course she would make them pay for this. 

“I don’t want to be remembered for the blood and battles.” She confided gently, laying her cheek on his knee. “I always thought… the greatest thing I ever did was inspire you to love someone again.” 

“Only you.” He whispered, a salty tear tracking through the scrapes on his face. “Always you.” 

“Love you.” She pressed her cheek harder against him when she said it and Maker, he could feel her. He wanted to reach out, run his fevered hand through the blood red hair. He needed to touch her, it didn’t matter if she was a fever spun hallucination or not. 

“A little longer.” She repeated quietly, venomously. 

 

He hadn’t seen Runa look so thrilled… ever. The elfroot they shoved him full of brought him back to awareness long enough to see her face light up in vindictive pleasure as she read the note. “Who brought this?” She asked sharply. 

“A raven. Message said to send it back with an answer.” 

“That’s no raven.” Another voice argued. “That’s a crow.” 

“Fuck off, crows don’t carry messages.” 

She had something clenched in her fist. Something shiny, a bit of gold chain just peeking out from her grasping fingers. “Is it her writing? Does anyone know it?” 

“That’s her necklace. The other Cadash has one just like it.” A female voice chimed in. “Saw her at a brothel once in Nevarra wearin’ nothin but that necklace and a two bit hooker in her lap.” 

Varric struggled to focus, her name calling out to something in him. Runa turned, triumphant, waving the parchment under his nose. “Your Carta whore says you duped her too, worked with her sister to smuggle your former lover out from under her nose.” 

“Cheatin’ bastard.” Someone whispered. 

“Think he was fucking the sister too?” 

Beatrix preferred women. Varric could nearly laugh at their willingness to gobble this up. “I’d never do that to Maria.” He whispered defiantly instead. 

In the corner, his hallucination smiled victoriously as she leaned against the wall nibbling on an apple. 

“She doesn’t buy your lies anymore than I do. Said she’d like to come cut her due out of you. Maybe you’ll confess to her.” Runa muttered angrily, shaking hand wrinkling the paper. It wasn’t Maria’s handwriting, someone else wrote it. Not surprising, she’d been right handed. His eyes were drawn to the shining object in her other hand instead. Runa opened her grubby fist to allow him to see it in full. “Sent her necklace as proof of who she was. Show of good faith.” 

Varric almost didn’t hide his triumph fast enough. Yeah, it was Maria’s necklace. He helped her clasp it around her neck often enough to know it, the delicate gold chain, the solid crest of her house. 

She sent the necklace, but she kept his signet ring, the one that rested right next to that crest, the one he slipped onto it for luck before the Exalted Council. The message couldn’t be louder if Maria screamed it. 

_ I have no intention of letting you go. I’m coming. Hold on. _

“That’s hers.” It was a feat to let his voice ring hollowly with defeat. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to contain his glee. “I’ll explain, when she gets here.” 

“You can’t talk yourself out of this one, Tethras.” Runa gloated, turning back to her hired muscle. “Send the answer back with the raven, tell the blasted woman she’s more than welcome.”

“It’s a crow.” Someone grumbled. 

 

He wasn’t sure how much time passed. A couple hours, at least. Enough time for Runa to get antsy, to pace back and forth in front of the burning forge. But Varric had been by Maria’s side long enough to feel the impending storm. To know that the quieter it was before, the fiercer it would be. 

“Ma’am, she’s here.” 

For a second, he thought Runa might change her mind. Might see through the bluff. But she nodded instead, straightening her hunched figure. “Who’s with her?”

“Nobody.” The man sounded perplexed. “Haven’t see anyone but her on the road all day, we’ve got lookouts. She’s come alone.”

Fools, Varric thought. If it wouldn’t give the game away, he’d roll his own eyes. 

“She’s only got one arm.” He continued on, confused. “Other one’s gone. We can take her knife, if you want…”

“I think I can handle a one-armed woman.” Runa’s grin dripped with venom. “Send the former Lady Inquisitor in.” 

Varric didn’t miss the sarcastic emphasis on lady. Snobs, damn snobs. He hoped the stone or the Maker or whoever swallowed them all whole. 

Then, before he could think anything else,  _ she _ was there. She materialized out of the shadows in the door like a blaze of light, red hair glinting, face impassive as her eyes roamed the space nonchalantly before they fixed on him. 

Their eye met only for a second, a moment so brief and fraught he could taste it even over the iron taste of his own blood his mouth. Time stopped for him, for her. Maria didn’t quite falter, she was too good for that. Her feet kept moving as if nothing was wrong, as if she noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

But her hand curled into a tight fist and stayed that way, completely still. The only part of her that was. 

“Nice place.” Her voice rang flippant against the rafters. “I pictured it smaller. Is that a golem she has over there? Does it work?” 

She inclined her head past him. Varric never saw what was behind him, he was always facing the blazing forge. Runa’s lips curled in a small, satisfied smile. “You do have an eye, don’t you? It barely works. We have the command stick but Bianca was never able to… correct the malfunctions. It does not always do as it is told.” 

“Pity.” Maria yawned, turning to the side. Not completely away from him, he could feel her gaze lingering from the corner of her eye. 

“I feel for you, girl. Truly.” Runa’s tone dripped with condescension and falsely-saccharine kindness. She reached out one of her shaking hands, gripped Maria’s shoulder. The one that ended in the nub above her elbow. Varric nearly growled, but Maria didn’t flinch. “You’re not the first one this bastard has taken in.” 

Maria made a small humming noise in her throat, one that could have been agreement before she turned to face him again. Her face was pale, easily mistaken for fury in her features by someone who didn’t know her well enough. “Varric.” 

“Maria.” He closed his eyes as he exhaled her name. “I can explain.” 

“Did my sister smuggle Bianca Davri out of Orlais?” She asked, voice a razor edge of danger. “Did you know about it?” 

He could play contrite long enough for whatever Maria planned to materialize. “We were going to tell you, I swear. It isn’t what it looks like, Princess.” 

“Lies.” Runa hissed from behind Maria’s shoulder, a snake. And for a split second, Maria’s face turned truly livid, eyes enflamed, shoulders tensed. The fist she had clenched never eased, not for a damn moment. 

She remembered herself nearly immediately, smoothed the emotion away and hid it behind a mask of despair just as she turned her face slightly to Runa. “I am sorry for your trouble, Mistress Davri. I can see the truth now. I just… I needed to see it for myself.” 

She played Wicked Grace better than anyone he knew, and that’s all this was. A high stakes card game. She hunched her shoulders, made her voice sound raw with guilt, drew attention away from the clenched fist.

Runa fell for it. “Oh, you sweet foolish girl.” She looked behind her, waved the rest of the muscle from the room. “Out, you lot. You don’t need to be here for this. This young lady and I have business to discuss.”

The men and women in the room exchanged glances, but nobody argued. Varric heard them shuffle out, held his breath as the room emptied. Maria didn’t move, didn’t say anything until the door shut. “Thank you.” Maria finally whispered. “I… appreciate not having an audience for this.” 

“Maria…” Varric called, voice hoarse and breaking. “Don’t listen to her.” 

As if his Maria ever would. Runa shot him a glare and circled her arm around Maria’s waist, her palm on her abdomen. Through his swollen eyes, Varric saw that  _ this _ was too much, the evil touch on empty skin. His heart broke as Maria flinched away, as she covered it with a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “I can’t believe he fooled me.” 

“He’s fooled Bianca just the same.” Runa pressed eagerly, following Maria as she retreated to lean over one of the work tables, holding herself above it with one arm. One arm within easy grabbing distance of Varric’s crossbow. Runa continued to talk, but Varric stopped paying attention. 

Maria was waiting. He didn’t have to wait long for what she was waiting for. 

The cacophony from outside rattled the windows in their frames. A burst of sound that deafened him for just a moment, that startled Runa Davri, made her turn towards the door. Maria straightened in one smooth, fluid movement. She spun on her heel and snarled, livid, furious, deadly.

Then her clenched fist landed on Runa’s jaw with such force that the old woman went down sprawling. Varric choked on his vindictive laughter, coughing so hard his broken ribs protested with shooting pain. Maria turned back to the table blindly, lifting the crossbow from its surface and very nearly sprinting to his side, the weight of the weapon awkward in her one arm. She threw it carelessly on the ground and Varric bit back a small, sarcastic complaint before her hand was on his cheek. “Maker, Varric. Varric, I’m so sorry, I…” 

“Not your fault.” He muttered. “Knew you were coming.” 

She fumbled with her knife, her hand shaking with fury, but she steadied it before she began to saw through the ropes holding his right hand to the chair. “I didn’t… we thought if we just burst in they’d kill you. Andraste, what did they do to you…” 

He felt a tear land on his chest, scalding hot. Her voice shook and then he felt pins and needles into his fingers, stiff from disuse, numb. She put the blade between her teeth and pulled the ropes away as quickly as she could, letting them fall to the ground before turning her attention to his left arm. 

Before she could do anything else, he slipped his stiff, bruised, probably broken arm around her waist, leaned his forehead on her chest. He could feel her heart beating through her shirt, warm, alive, safe. “I shouldn’t have left you.” He croaked weakly. “Not like that. Princess, I should have…” 

“You had to.” Her voice sounded firm, but more than just that. Alive. Blissfully, completely, alive. Not some dull, flat thing telling him she should have died. “It’s alright. I love you, I’m here.” 

“You think you’re so clever.” Runa’s voice hissed from the ground. “You’re just a rat who got lucky, girl. You won’t win.” 

Maria didn’t even deign to look back. She was trying to manage Varric’s weight on her chest, his arm around her waist, and sawing through the ropes binding his left hand. “I already have.” Maria’s voice was ice, imperious and commanding. “You won’t survive a war with me, Davri. If I were you, I’d start running before I get done here. I don’t usually slit old women’s throats, but for you I’d make an exception.” 

Runa pushed herself up off the ground, Varric heard her, but there were no hurried footfalls. Instead she took a few staggering steps. Maria swore, pressed her dagger into Varric’s chest. “Take this. You might have to do the rest.” 

He could feel the intricate handle, Maria’s initials in ivory. His fingers closed around it and he nodded, freeing Maria enough so she could turn, her hand dropping to a belt of throwing knives as she stepped away from Varric’s form towards Runa.

Over Maria’s shoulder, Runa held up a long dark rod of some sort. Maria drew her knife in a second, tossing it in a fluid motion that embedded the blade solidly in Runa’s shoulder. Runa shrieked, but it was too late. The rod was glowing blue, a pattern like the lyrium lining Fenris’s skin spreading over the sleek stone. 

Behind him, Varric heard something groan to life. Something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he tried his damnedest to hack through the ropes holding him with fingers that seared in pain. The golem stomped past them, causing Maria’s hair to flutter around her face as she stared it down. Varric felt fear claw in his throat. “Maria, you gotta go.” He growled, fingers flailing uselessly at the ropes. 

“Not without you.” She stated calmly, gripping another knife tightly in her fist. A knife that would do a little less than jack shit against a golem. Varric swore. 

“Kill the girl.” Runa ordered sharply. “The man still has questions to answer.” 

The golem’s eyes flashed, brilliant blue. It didn’t move. 

“You wretched creature!” Runa screeched. “Did you not hear me?” 

Varric was beginning to feel relieved. The ropes from his left arm fell away and he bent forward, fighting the surge of dizziness from the blood rushing to his head, the protest of his ribs, as he began to saw frantically at the ropes holding his legs. 

“I ORDER YOU TO…” 

It was the last thing Runa Davri ever said. The golem lashed out, stone striking flesh, sending Runa careening into the stone wall with a sickening crunch. Bianca’s mother crumpled like wet paper, leaving a smear of blood as she fell. 

Maria’s breath caught in her throat. Both of them stopped moving, still and silent as the golem’s eyes flashed blue again. Again. Then the creature turned to them with audible creaks. 

“Identify yourself.” The golem ordered, fixing blue eyes on them. For a beat, neither of them spoke. 

“Varric Tethras.” Varric coughed, clutched the blade closer. “At your service. We won’t be giving orders.” 

“Tethras. Unknown house. Possible enemy.” The golem’s eyes flashed and it took a menacing step forward. 

“I’m Maria Cadash.” Maria took a step towards it, squarely between the creature and him like she could be his shield. “Maria Cadash. I’m the woman she ordered you to kill, but you certainly don’t have to do that.” 

“House recognized.” The voice grumbled. “House Cadash. Cadash Thaig. Warriors.” 

“Sure.” Maria’s voice trembled with audible relief. “Sure. I’ll take it.” 

“Cadash thaig has fallen.” The golem intoned. “All Cadash are casteless. Criminals.” 

“No.” Maria argued. “No, I’m not. I’m not a criminal, I’m…” 

Maria’s voice faded. He remembered her telling him once she didn’t even know who she was anymore if she wasn’t the Inquisitor. She stiffened her shoulders, squared them and took another step forward. “I’m a warrior, I swear.” 

“But the Thaig has fallen.” The golem rumbled, blue eyes flashing more rapidly. 

“STOP!” A voice commanded from behind them. “On behalf of Shale Cadash, second commander of the Legion of Steel, I order you to stop!”

Who the  _ fuck _ was Shale Cadash? 

Varric turned his blurred eyesight to the door. Hawke, he thought at first with a surge of relief. If anyone could turn a golem to bits and pieces, it was Hawke. But then he noticed the wicked scar marring her face, the hair was the wrong length, and her eyes were dark instead of blue. 

Not Hawke, but the Warden Commander. 

“Shale Cadash. Criminal. Traitor!” The golem roared, starting towards the door. Lighting surged from Chantal’s fingertips, crackling the air around them. 

“Help. You need help. I’m here.” 

He didn’t know where Cole came from, but Varric never felt so relieved in his life. Cole was slicing through ropes, his pale eyes determined. “Kid, good to see you.” 

“Cole, he’s hurt.” Maria yanked her knife back from his useless fingers.  

“Sick.” Cole muttered. “Fever. Weak.” 

Varric chuckled weakly. Behind them, Dorian joined the fray, magic jumping across the room. He could feel it in his teeth.

“Zev, get him out of here!” The Warden shouted in a fury, her staff flying through the air. 

“He’s not going to be able to walk out himself. They put him through the wringer. Chest hair’s still intact, though.” He couldn’t see who was talking, but it sounded so familiar. “He’s burning up.” The voice continued. 

“We can get him out, no?” A more cultured voice chimed in, optimistic. “It is not the first time we have faced a golem, my friend. Chantal is more than capable of holding it off.” 

“Maybe.” Cole murmured. “Control rod. Fell from her hand. Turn it off. Turn it off.” 

“Get him out.” Maria commanded. She sheathed the blade at her side and yanked Bianca from the ground, heedless of the weight. He choked on her name as she slipped away. 

“Oh, that’s not good.” He placed the voice, but it couldn’t be Blondie. It absolutely couldn’t be. He was still hallucinating. 

But he wasn’t. Blonde hair, immaculately styled, fell from a hair tie around the mage’s face as he bent down, threw one lanky arm under Varric’s shoulder with a wicked grin that promised mischief. “So, have you ever considered renaming that crossbow? Just a bit?”


	31. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric’s breath tickled her ear as he leaned in close. “One, I’ve been madly and insanely in love with you since I left you beside that damn catapult at Haven.”  
> His lips moved from her ear down her jaw, the words scorching her skin when he spoke. “Two, you fell in love with me despite being entirely out of my league.”  
> He was out of her league. Maria Cadash reaching for the stars she couldn’t have, again. “And the third?” She asked softly.  
> He pulled away just far enough to stare into her eyes, letting her see just how serious and determined he was. “Our little girl should have two parents who married each other for love.” 
> 
> Maria's name carries a long and bloody history. Chantal carries a secret. Varric asks a question.

Varric’s blood stained her fingers crimson. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen her pale skin covered in red. Sometimes she thought even if she scrubbed herself raw, she’d still see crimson like a brand stuck in her pores.

She’d have said anything to make the golem stop, would have claimed to be anything to save Varric and the tiny spark of hope inside her. But when the word warrior crossed her lips, she realized for the first time that yes, that was correct. Her tongue, so used to lies, had almost stuttered on the truth of it. All of her life summed up into one simple statement. 

_ I’m a warrior, I swear.  _

And if she could fight for anyone, it was for Varric. If she could wade through blood for anyone, it was him. 

The crossbow was too heavy for her and it always had been, even when she had two arms. Still, it was a bow, and she trusted the damn thing more than her knives. Although, really, whether either weapon would do a damn thing against a golem was debatable. She honestly thought there wasn’t anything left that she hadn’t fought, but she couldn’t remember a crazed golem before. Something new every day, she supposed. 

Still, there was a moment of panic, of indecision. A fluttering heartbeat in her chest she swore didn’t exist before. She had one arm, a crossbow she could barely lift (named after a woman whose mother she was partially responsible for killing), a dagger, some knives, and she was  _ pregnant _ . The man she loved barely seemed coherent, her name a strangled cry on his lips as she turned away from his tortured form. 

She’d already nearly lost them both once. Did she have any right to risk it again? 

“Go.” Cole looked up from the ground, his pale eyes fierce. “Help them. It’s what you do. I’ll help Varric.” 

Before she could hesitate any longer, she flew into action. She heard Anders talking as they lifted Varric from the chair, but she couldn’t focus on that. Chantal and Dorian were slinging a fury of spells, ozone crackling, frost climbing the walls. The golem itself looked a bit singed from a fireball and was missing one arm, the stones crumbled around it’s feet as it slammed it’s massive foot down with such force that Dorian staggered. 

She sat the crossbow down gently away from the pool of blood spreading from the former Mistress Davri. Her eyes stared unseeingly into the distance, crumpled on her side, one hand still clutching the control rod in a grip so tight that Maria had to pry her clammy fingers from the smooth metal. 

Except it wasn’t metal, it was crystal. Shiny and black like nothing she’d ever seen before. As soon as she touched it, the runes on it flickered to life, the electric blue of lyrium. Behind her, the golem roared. 

“I will not be controlled by creatures such as these!” It bellowed in anger. “I WILL NOT!”

It picked up one of the tables, implements of blacksmithing flying in every which way, then launched the massive piece of furniture in Dorian’s direction as effortlessly as her throwing crumpled balls of paper. A barrier sprung into place, the table thudding against it heavily enough to cause Dorian to stagger backwards, barrier dissolving. 

“Fine then!” Maria yelled, tossed the control up in the air with one hand, caught it securely as it came back down. The golem turned its attention to her, shining blue eyes frizzling. The control rod felt like a leash in her hand, like the saarebas, like the slaves in the imperium chained and bound. 

It felt satisfying to slam it against the stone wall, to hear the crystal shatter into a thousand pieces. She let go nearly immediately, turning her back from the small puff of an explosion, the runes releasing their power in a great gust that blew the rest of her hair from the messy knot at the nape of her neck. 

The golem stared her down, unmoving. Almost as if it were not seeing her at all. 

“Well, yes.” Dorian commented dryly from behind the mountain of stone. “Cadash, I certainly hope you didn’t just destroy the only thing capable of soothing that beast.” 

“It isn’t a beast.” Chantal’s voice sounded sad, quiet. “It was a dwarf. Once. They bound the poor things in stone and metal, poured lyrium into it to make it a golem. We were able to reverse it in one case, but... ” 

“Cadash.” The golem spoke, took a lumbering awkward step forward. “The exiled. The feared. Breakers of chains.” 

“Just Cadash.” Maria didn’t back away, she stood her ground. Dorian lurched forward but was grabbed by Chantal, held fast by the small woman. 

“Do you know who you are?” It rumbled, taking another step forward. “Do you hear the songs in your blood?” 

The golem dropped to its knees as Dorian protested in Chantal’s iron grip. “When Arlathan fell, the elves ran to your ancestors and your blood sheltered them. When Kal-Sharok attacked, they fought to the last warrior, leaving only the ill, the young, the old.”

Maria felt something prickle at the back of her neck. This was like listening to whispers beyond the grave. “When the darkspawn came, when the tainted and twisted attacked, the warriors of Cadash thaig volunteered for the slaughter. When the thaig fell, they vowed to retake it. When they insisted on alliances with the humans, the elves, the dragon blooded, they were forced out by those too ashamed to admit weakness.” 

The golem raised one hand to the glowing rune on its head. “Are you of their blood, Warrior Cadash?” 

Maria couldn’t look away from the steady blue glow of the eyes, but her mouth moved anyway. “The past doesn’t matter. It’s the future we have to think about.” 

The lights in the golems eyes flashed as if it laughed. “Your past is your future, Warrior Cadash.”  

With that, the golem reached up its remaining hand and yanked the rune from its forehead. The light inside went out immediately and it staggered forward, falling just inches from her feet, the rune in its remaining hand flickering faintly. 

Maria didn’t think twice before kneeling, picking it up. It beat in her hand like a heart. “Cadash…” Dorian called in warning.  _ Cadash _ . It had been her father’s name. Her grandfather’s.  

“It wanted her to have it.” Chantal let go of Dorian, stretching gently as the man scowled at her. “I’m glad you freed it.”

She slipped the rune into her pocket, bending to pick up Bianca. The motion brought her eyes back to the chair, stained with Varric’s blood, the cruel looking manacles above it. Her stomach twisted in rebellion, demanding she empty it here.

His past demanding his blood.

“I want this place burned.” Her throat felt like ashes. She took a look up at the fluttering banner above the forge, studded with arrows, ripped to shreds. “I want it gone.”

She didn’t stay to watch it burn. 

 

“I don’t suppose any of you have lyrium?” Anders voice shook with fatigue, his hand traveling quickly, efficiently. 

“I gave you what we had.” Chantal sunk to her knees, concern flickering to life across her soft features. “It isn’t enough?” 

“There must have been poison on something.” Ander murmured to himself. “Some sort of toxin in his bloodstream. I saw some… bloody implements. I didn’t think to examine them. I’m fighting that, these injuries, and the infection.” 

They were downwind of the smoking inferno Dorian and Chantal turned the forge into. Zevran wrinkled his nose in thought. “I did not smell any poison, mi amor.”

“Some metals are toxic untreated.” The words tumbled loose, a stray thought in a sea of them. She had her fingers interlaced with Varric’s, eyes fixed on his face. His eyes hadn’t opened since she’d knelt in the grass beside him. “Pyrophite is one. I can’t remember the others. Dorian, can you…” 

“I have none.” Dorian admitted. “We exhausted much of our own supply in the Crossroads. Vivienne and I had only a bottle apiece. I allowed her to keep the one she had. Foolish.” 

They had no time to restock because she’d immediately sent them on the run to save Bea. “The dwarves didn’t have any on them?” 

When she ran the carta, she always kept a bit on her in case someone wanted to sample the product or she had to do business with a jonesing templar. Zevran shook his head in irritation. “Nothing worth looting at all, sadly.” 

“How bad is it?” Her voice trembled, she couldn’t help it. Anders scowled down at his hands and didn’t answer. 

“Won’t fail.” Cole whispered at her side, his hand on her shoulder. “Bled enough. I’ve bled them enough.” 

“It’s alright.” Chantal’s soothing voice held no trace of trembling emotion, but it brought a tide of something like fear to Zevran’s. The woman stripped off her leather gloves, revealing the long slender fingers she first noticed splayed on Zevran’s chest. “I’ll help.” 

“I do not appreciate this trick of yours, little witch.” Zevran grumbled with false lightheartedness. “If you hurt yourself, I shall be the one to tell Kai and he will take the news poorly.” 

“I know.” Chantal stated serenely, a small sad smile playing around her lips as she tipped her head up. “I don’t think it is time yet, love. Have no fear.” 

“Chantal…” Anders tore his eyes from Varric, looked back to the small woman. 

“Hush.” She said simply, laying her bare palm over his. “It’s my choice still, isn’t it? Now tell me when you’re ready.” 

Zevran bent double to place a searing kiss on top of Chantal’s dark hair, so much like Hawke’s hair, murmured something soft in Antivan before pulling away. Chantal continued to wait, patient, flicking her sweet, soft eyes up to Maria. She smiled gently, nose wrinkling as she did. “I’ve got him, don’t you worry.” 

“Oh.” Cole whispered, rocking back on his heels. It was at the same time as Anders nodded. Chantal took a deep breath, closed her eyes. 

The world went silent. For one heart-shattering moment there was nothing, nobody. The scent of smoke, of blood, the grass and trees, faded. Maria could feel nothing but Varric’s hand in her own, Cole’s palm on her shoulder. 

Then Chantal opened her eyes, but they weren’t dark any longer. They blazed with a white light so blinding Maria tore her gaze from the woman, blinking startled tears away. The light was racing down her skin, turning it as bright as if she’d swallowed the moon. Maria’s skin prickled with the raw power of it, the wash of energy that crashed over them like a tidal way.

“Anders.” Chantal whispered, but it was so loud it felt like she was in Maria’s head. In all their heads. This was no simple woman, no mage, no warden or warrior. In a striking, crazy way Chantal reminded her of the opposite of Mythal, no dark and vengeful swamp witch, but something else. Something as powerful, but purer. A goddess of light. 

Varric’s fingers twitched within hers and Maria cried out, turning her face back to his, leaning over him. Bruises, cuts, scrapes were vanishing at a remarkable pace. Color returned to pallid skin. She couldn’t see the bones setting, but she was a betting woman, and she’d bet they were. 

Then as soon as it began, it was over. The sound in the world exploded into ears that rang with the power she’d experienced, too loud. Too noisy. Too imperfect. Maria reeled back, staring in wonder as Chantal slumped against Anders. The man twisted quickly, catching her in his arms and pushing her dark hair from her temple, a pulse of blue light at his fingertips sinking back into her skin.

“Mi amor.” Zevran’s arms twisted around her, supporting her and he pressed his lips against her jaw. “Chantal, come back to me.” 

“I’m here.” She whispered weakly. “Anders, is it…?”

“With that boost?” Anders joked weakly, pushing more blue light back into Chantal. “He’s probably five years younger now. You gave too much, you always do. Here…” 

“Fasta vass.” Dorian rubbed at his slackened jaw, staring at the trio as a trickle of blood emerged from Chantal’s nose, tracing down pale skin. “She’s… she’s an abomination. I’ve never… I’ve never seen anything like… but she must be. She must.”

“Not like me. Not like Justice, but almost like Wynne. Almost. She had faith. Not this.” Cole murmured, smiling in a sort of childish awe at the woman who collapsed backwards into Zevran. “Not  _ this _ .” 

“She’ll be fine, I think.” Anders soothed, brushing the blood from Chantal’s lip. “Blighted stubborn…” 

“What is  _ with  _ you people?” Dorian burst out. “Oh, a spirit! Let me just hike up my skirts and invite it to move into my skull! Nothing could  _ possibly _ go wrong!” 

“Wasn’t… wasn’t quite like that.” Chantal gasped, her hand raising to her heart.

“Of course it wasn’t!” Dorian exclaimed. 

Varric’s fingers tightened, clenched hers against calloused skin, warm, rough, achingly familiar. She whirled back to his face, away from the mages and Zevran, into honey colored eyes so deep she could lose herself in them. He blinked, once, then twice before a wry smile twisted his lips. 

“Princess.” His voice was no worse for wear, it sounded simply sleep roughened. The way he spoke to her in the morning when he tried to insist she return to bed. 

“Dorian, shut up.” The words came out more a laugh than anything else, her hand shaking as she brought his fingers to her lips. “Shut up. I don’t care. I don’t care what she is.” If Chantal’s spirit wanted to room in her head for awhile, Maria would allow it. Anything to see that smile again. “Varric, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I…” 

Sorry for everything. Sorry for dragging him to the middle of Orlais, sorry for sticking him in the middle of the Inquisition, sorry for being unable to protect him. 

Sorry she couldn’t stop fighting, sorry she’d never be able to stop. 

“Hey, hey…” His voice turned gentle, rising up on one elbow. “I don’t think this was your fault, Maria. I think this was  _ my _ fault.”

He paused a second, as if to consider. “Or your sister’s.” 

The laugh that escaped sounded hysterical even to her ears. 

 

It was a weary group that straggled back into the camp manned only by Howe and the little boy. Zevran carried Chantal most of the way, her form small in his arms, her voice thin whispers, but she insisted on walking in herself so as not to scare the child. 

“If we’re going back farther.” Varric muttered darkly, glaring at the back of Anders head. “We can assign blame to someone else.” 

“I saved your life.” Anders bemoaned dramatically. “Multiple times, really, most recent being today.” 

“And endangered it a dozen times more.” 

“I’m not saying I’ve made excellent decisions…” 

Dorian snorted and shoved Anders through the trees before turning and spearing Maria with a rather pointed look and following him. From the tree line, Maria heard Kai cheering at his parents return. Heard Cole’s voice ask something about the trees, Howe’s bewildered response. 

“Andraste’s freckled ass, where did you find him?” Varric asked, rubbing his chin uncomfortably. Several days gone and the poor man almost had a decent beard. She hoped Dorian thought to bring razors. 

“I’ve got a gift for finding trouble.” 

Varric laughed softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, you do. Maker, it’s good to hear you joke again. I thought…” 

The pain rushed over his face too quickly for him to conceal, too fast to shake off. “I need to tell you…” She began. 

She couldn’t do it in front of everyone. This should have always been just her and Varric’s, but of course it all went sideways. It always did. That’s why Dorian left them alone. 

“I know.” Varric started, sighing. “I know, Maria.” 

“No you don’t.” She stated firmly. “Varric…” 

“Marry me.”

Not much could leave her speechless, but that did a pretty good job of it. The words on her tongue died, shriveled into one word. “What?”   
“Marry. Me.” Varric repeated slowly, his eyes burning molten with a storm of emotions. “Before the world goes to shit again. As soon as we can make our way to a chantry. Marry me and let me spend the rest of my life loving you.” 

She needed to sit down. “Varric, the guild…”

“Will fine us for marrying without notifying them, but it’s better than giving them a chance to object.” He said smoothly. “I’ve had a lot of time to think lately, Princess. The only way we’re not getting married, honestly, is if you don’t want to marry me. Otherwise, I’ve got a plan.” 

“A plan.” She echoed hollowly, staring at him uncomprehendingly.  

“Me. You. A sympathetic chantry mother and a riveting tale about finally getting my head on straight after nearly watching you burn alive that’s honestly got more truth to it than I’d like to admit.” Varric ran his fingers through his hair, aggravated. “Damnit. I should have asked you forever ago. I should have asked you the second you told me… the second you said you were expecting. It’s too late now, and I can’t take it back, but I can make it right.” 

“It’s not too late.” She broke in. 

“You’re right.” Varric never could stop talking. “Shit, I know you’re right. I know this isn’t the best time.” 

“Varric…” 

“I love you.” Varric reached out and grabbed her hand, rubbed his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. “And you love me too. It’s that simple, Maria. I want to marry you, I want…”

“I didn’t lose the baby.” 

It was the only way she could get him to stop. The thumb that had been moving over her knuckles froze and he stared at her, almost as if she’d gone a little mad. “So, I hope you still want to be a father.” She added quietly. 

“You’re… Maria you can’t be.” Varric’s voice broke a bit. “I was there, I saw… I saw what the anchor did to you.” 

She’d been there too. She jerked her head through the trees to the muttered voices, the child’s laughter. “According to the mad bomber of Kirkwall, I am. He’s not a reliable source, but Cole believes him and Dorian made Anders show him. So… I guess our little dwarf is about as tenacious as you and as stubborn as me. She’s… she’s fine. She’ll be fine.” 

Varric continued to stare at her and Maria brought his hand to her stomach, resting it on her abdomen. “I like the name Marguerite, and I think I should pick, because you’ll just call her whatever you want anyway.” 

Before the last syllable fell from her lips, she was in his arms, pressed against his bloody tunic, covered in burn marks and slashes, beyond salvageable. But he was whole against her, undamaged thanks to Chantal’s magic and Anders’s skill and his lips pressed against hers desperately. 

He was as unharmed as the baby inside her, and if she needed to sacrifice an arm to keep them both safe… it was worth it. It was beyond worth it. He pulled back from her mouth with a ragged breath, kissed her cheek fiercely and whispered against her skin. “Marry me.” 

She choked on a laugh that was mostly nerves. “I just killed your ex-girlfriend’s mother.” 

“Runa did it to herself.” Varric muttered darkly. 

“I definitely burned Bianca’s forge down.” 

“Somehow, I don’t think she was coming back to it anyway.” 

She pulled away, stared into his warm whiskey eyes. There was a thousand reasons this was madness. A hundred thousand. “I threw your crossbow on the ground.” 

“I’ll forgive you. This once.” He chuckled lightly, tightening his grip on her arm, on her waist. 

“I only have one arm.” Tears burned her throat. 

“Luckily, I wasn’t that fond of the other one. Ask Cole, he’ll confirm it. Awkwardly, in front of everyone.” 

“I’ll be a terrible Viscountess.” She put her one remaining hand on his shoulder. “Aveline and I will drive each other nuts.” 

“Honestly, she needs someone to keep her on her toes. I think she misses having Isabela around.” Varric grinned, both smug and infuriating. “Nobody remembers the last Viscountess anyway, so you’ll be an improvement no matter what.” 

“I’m probably at war with the Qunari.” 

“That’s why we’ve kept Hawke around in Kirkwall, honestly.” 

“I’ve got to stop Solas from destroying the world. I can’t… I can’t stop fighting, I have to…” 

“I know.” Varric’s eyes turned serious, warm. “Which is why we need to get married now, before shit gets any stranger. The way this week is going, I wouldn’t be shocked if the next thing that happens is undead nug armies.”

“Do you remember what happened to the last man who asked me to marry him?” She demanded desperately. Fynn died. Fynn died because she was cursed to spill blood and have blood spilt for her.

“Worth the risk.” Varric said easily, smoothing her hair away from her face. “Trully, all excellent reasons we shouldn’t get married, but I’ve got three reasons we should and they’re much better.” 

Varric’s breath tickled her ear as he leaned in close. “One, I’ve been madly and insanely in love with you since I left you beside that damn catapult at Haven.”

His lips moved from her ear down her jaw, the words scorching her skin when he spoke. “Two, you fell in love with me despite being entirely out of my league.”

He was out of her league. Maria Cadash reaching for the stars she couldn’t have, again. “And the third?” She asked softly.

He pulled away just far enough to stare into her eyes, letting her see just how serious and determined he was. “Our little girl should have two parents who married each other for love.” 

She leaned in, brushed her nose against his newly broken and mended one. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathless against the storm of anxiety and joy breaking inside her. When she opened them, Varric was smiling as if joy was easy, as if she could pluck it from the sky as easily as Chantal could take flight. 

As if she wasn’t a blood stained butcher reaching for the sun.  As if she wouldn’t ruin him. As if he wouldn’t let her.

And Maker, she wanted to marry him. She desired it so strongly she almost could convince herself he was some sort of demon sent to tempt her with all the soft, fine things she couldn’t have. “Varric… I need…. I need to think.” 

His smile turned sad, wistful. “That’s alright.” His honeyed voice soothed, his lips dizzyingly close to hers. “But when you change your mind, it’s your turn to ask. Properly, on bended knee.” 

Before she could argue that, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was equal parts passion and gentle, his hand pressed tight against her stomach as if he could protect them both.  

 

_ Sheets of icy rain soaked through Maria’s coat as she ducked from one awning to another. A part of her, a rather large part, wished she could simply vanish into the storm and the night. If she did, it might very well be better for everyone. _

_ She looked like a drowned cat by the time she approached Fynn’s forge, squat on the corner of two of the best avenues in the city. The front entrance loomed grandly in front of her, but Maria ducked into the shadows of the side alley, pausing for a moment and listening.  _

_ Nothing but the thunder cracking above her head, the rain hitting the cobblestones. On a night like this, only the craziest people were out roaming the streets. Even the criminal element knew better than to catch their death dashing through the rain.  _

_ All except one of them, she mused dourly, slipping to the back door. She had to hop a low wall separating the smithy from a neighboring building, entering into a smelting courtyard. The benches and tools were odd, warped shadows in the night, but there was a warm glow from the window at the back. She turned the knob to the unlocked door, shoving it open with her shoulder.  _

_ “You’re late.”  _

_ Fynn had his shirtsleeves rolled up his strong arms. He was inspecting an ingot of some type of metal critically, but he was already dropping it as Maria shut the door behind her.  _

_ “And wet.” She offered unhelpfully, holding her arms out to her side. She was already creating an enormous puddle around her boots, rain dripping from her fingers onto the wood beneath her. She peered at him from the shadows by the door, the light from the forge not quite reaching her.  _

_ He couldn’t see the despair on her face, but she saw the joy on his. When Fynn lifted his eyes, he laughed gruffly, shaking his head. “You’re ruining the floor.” He accused, attempting to sound severe. It was ruined by the glimmer in his brown eyes.  _

_ Love. Fynn Dunhark loved her, was thrilled to see her. He always was. Maria shut her eyes against the sight. “Do you have a towel?” She asked, her voice steady in spite of everything.  _

_ “They’re all dirty.” He was still laughing under his breath, but he’d turned to head deeper into the shop. She could hear him humming under his breath. The sound ripped into her heart and she leaned back against the door, fighting the urge to flee back out into the night. _

_ The letter his father sent was still on one of the worktables, untouched.  _

_ When Fynn returned and saw that she hadn’t moved from the door, he frowned into the darkness. There was soot on the towel he held, she knew if she took it she’d smell ash, sulfur, molten iron and coal. In essence, him. “I knew something had happened when you were late. What’s wrong?” He asked, stepping forward, away from the fire towards the shadows surrounding her.  _

_ She pushed her hair away from her face and stepped forward into the light. It had been hard for him to see her properly when she’d come in, shadowed in the dark doorway and sopping hair plastered to her face. Now, there was no hiding the blue and purple bruise decorating her left eye. “Nanna didn’t want me to come down here tonight.” _

_ Nanna never wanted her to come down here again. The older woman shook in fury when she retrieved Maria from the elder Dunhark’s shop, glaring daggers at the genial looking man as she bundled Maria away from the door.  _

_ “Son of a bitch, Maria.” Fynn abandoned the towel on the table to take her chin gently in between his fingers.  _

_ “You should see the other guy.” She knew the attempt at humor wasn’t going to work, but she couldn’t help herself. It was that or cry. Fynn’s brown eyes hardened and his mouth turned down sharply at the corners.  _

_ “Someone much bigger than you, obviously.” He guessed shrewdly. _

_ “Fynn, everyone is bigger than me.”  _

_ “Maria.” It wasn’t fair that her name in his mouth could cause a little shiver to go down her spine, in spite of his strict and foreboding tone. “In spite of your protests that lyrium smuggling is a safe occupation, you seem to have gotten into a brawl.”  _

_ “I was actually kidnapped by the city guard.”  _

_ “Why?” He asked, perplexed. “I thought Zarra has them all paid off.”  _

_ “Would you believe I wasn’t even doing anything illegal? I was just trying to grab a bite to eat.” She babbled evasively. Fynn tugged her to the fire, settled her in one of the chairs. “Poor Bea never did get that dinner I promised her.”  _

_ “Were you gambling with the guard again?” Fynn asked, sinking to his knees in front of her. His fingers, rough and sure, had moved from her chin to the outline of the bruise on her cheek.  _

_ “It was your father, actually.” She couldn’t look into his eyes anymore, pointed them to the puddle growing under her boots instead. Despite the blazing fire, despite Fynn’s gentle touch on her skin, she felt ice cold. “He wanted to have a chat about how I can convince you to marry me the girl.”  _

_ Fynn’s fingers froze. She snuck a peek from under her lashes. His eyes blazed with fury and he wrenched himself away from her, staring daggers at the forlorn letter on the table before swinging back to her. “Did he hit you?” Fynn demanded.  _

_ “No.” She swallowed. “That was one of the guards when I tried to get away.”  _

_ “That blighted whoreson.” Fynn growled. “Flaming bastard, when I get my hands on him…”  _

_ Maria’s stomach turned uneasily. “He said if I didn’t convince you to marry what’s-her-name, he’d have me thrown in jail, or worse, with Bea and Nanna.”  _

_ Her name was Davika, Maria knew that, but damned if she’d say it. “He said I needed to learn my place, that it was alright if you kept a whore, but you needed to do your duty.”  _

_ The words felt like she’d swallowed one of Bea’s poisons, burning her throat on the way up. “Then he summoned Nanna to come retrieve me.”  _

_ “I won’t let him.” Fynn promised, kneeling at her feet again. His hands were steady on her face as he stroked the bruise on her skin tenderly, gently. “I won’t let him hurt you or your family, I swear it. I promise. We’ll make it through this, somehow.” _

_ “You’ll have to marry her.” He’d have to break her heart, just like she knew he would. “You have to.”  _

_ “No.” Fynn’s eyes blazed. “I’d only ever marry you, nobody else. I’d die first.”   _

 

Varric threw his arm over her waist as some point during the night. He clung to her in his sleep as if he worried that she’d vanish in a puff of smoke and she had to navigate out from under his solid limbs carefully before she freed herself enough to sit up. 

She took a moment to look over him, to reassure herself he was fine. Zevran, luckily, retrieved Varric’s items from the inn he’d been kidnapped from in Verchiel. A quick shave and a change of clothes had her forgetting, already, how horrible he’d looked. 

The only thing missing was his signet ring in her pocket, the one she kept when she sent her necklace to Runa Davri. She never thought to retrieve the pretty little gold thing, the one piece of her life left from before she became Inquisitor. Somehow, she didn’t grieve it’s loss as much as she thought she would. 

The fire still sparked brightly, cheerfully. Chantal hummed softly beside it, cradling the sleeping figure of her small boy in her lap. Beside her, Zevran traced fingers up and down the elegant line of her back. He whispered something and Chantal broke off her humming to look over her shoulder towards them. 

“Awake again?” She asked softly, inclining her head in invitation. Maria stood, letting her hand drift over Varric’s shoulder as she did so. An owl hooted as she crossed the short distance to the fire. 

“Truly, do all great and beautiful women struggle to sleep so?” Zevran complained, his fingers never slowing as they danced their familiar path. Chantal leaned into the touch with a small, amused smile. “It is unfair that you both look so radiant despite taking no rest like we lesser mortals must.” 

“Thank you for your concern.” Maria said dryly. “I’m touched.” 

“Not half as well as you could be if your lovely paramour would be inclined to share.” Zevran’s grin caught the dying embers of the firelight. “Si, amor?” 

“Zevran.” Wisps of Chantal’s hair escaped the braids she put it in and she tucked them impatiently behind her ear with an amused smile while she chided the elf. She shifted Kai’s weight against her shoulder, smoothed his fine blonde hair away from his face while she looked down. Zevran laughed, a warm low sound that brought a flush of color to Chantal’s pale skin. 

“Are you alright?” Maria lowered herself down beside Chantal, examining the woman closely from the corner of her eye. Her face glowed with serene contentment, but she still looked exhausted, lashes fluttering against her cheekbones in protest of being awake. 

“Have you ever heard of Senior Enchanter Wynne? From Kinloch Hold?” Chantal asked quietly. 

“I think Cole spoke of her. She was his friend’s mother and she died saving them when the spire fell.” Maria folded her knees up, rested her one whole arm across them and planted her chin on it. “If we wait long enough, Cole will probably show up and tell us.” 

Cole must have wandered off into the woods. If he didn’t show back up at daybreak, she’d need to go find him. Dorian would be furious.  

“She was my teacher when I was in the circle. She looked after me, mentored me, loved me.” Chantal looked down at the boy sleeping in her arms. “She probably knew me better than she knew her own child. Mages weren’t allowed to keep their children in the circle, you know. Rhys was sent to Orlais when he was born and Wynne… well, Wynne met him when he was grown, older than I was. I can’t even imagine, can you?”

Maria didn’t want to imagine someone ripping her baby from her arms, the devastation of losing something so vital, so wanted. But she’d already thought her baby lost once, so she found it easier to recall the swirling abyss than she wanted to admit.  “She was one of your companions during the blight? She came with you?” 

“She loved me like a daughter. Of course she came.” Chantal smiled fondly. “She hated Zev.” 

“Only at first!” Zevran protested immediately. “She could not fail to succumb to my charms eventually.” 

“Wynne was an abomination.” Chantal stated calmly, without emotion. “She died and a spirit brought her back when Kinloch Hold fell. She thought she had a purpose to serve, that purpose was to get me through the Blight, to help me slay the archdemon. She thought a spirit of faith possessed her to help her achieve that.” 

Maria waited poignantly in the silence, but neither Chantal or Zevran said anything more so Maria plunged forward. “Is that what happened to you? You died?” 

“Yes.” Chantal said simply, turning her dark eyes to Maria. They were bottomless in the night. Zevran’s hand had stopped moving on her back, laying still instead. 

“Many who try to join the Grey Wardens die.” Chantal began, her voice soft and gentle in the night. “At least a third, sometimes more. Becoming a warden is slightly less fatal than contracting the blight, but it catches up to you eventually. I was living on borrowed time from Ostagar and I knew it, but I hoped I could save myself.” 

“So you found the cure.” Maria hazarded. 

“We found the cure.” Chantal corrected. “We had most of it all along, but the power it takes to reverse the taint… it is nearly as bad as becoming a warden. I suspect many who would perish in that process would not survive the cure either. So far, however, every warden we have cured has survived except one.” 

Zevran’s fingers clenched in Chantal’s tunic, a sudden burst of agony. He watched, she realized immediately. The man watched Chantal die and could do nothing to help her. His eyes slipped from the fire to the darkness, an expression of fleeting agony at the corners of his lips. 

“Oghren survived, he volunteered to go first. But I was very ill by then, quickly running out of time. I suspect I was too far gone, in the end. Even Anders… he nearly killed himself trying to bring me back.” 

Chantal Amell was a small woman, petite and fine-boned like Hawke. It was Hawke she pictured, veins blackened, coughing and clutching at the dirt. Maria closed her eyes to try and banish the vision. 

“I felt my heart stop beating. The world stretched out farther and farther away. I remember slipping into the blackness, everything I was swirling into the abyss.” Chantal closed her eyes. “Sometimes, when I’m drifting off to sleep, I scare myself awake thinking I’m going again. Silly, hm?” 

It didn’t sound silly to her at all. Zevran huffed as if in exasperation, laying his forehead on Chantal’s shoulder. “But, of course, Chantal did always surprise us when she needed to.” He grumbled fondly. 

“I wasn’t alone in the darkness. Something else greeted me like an old friend, like I’d simply come home. It embraced me and held me tight in the darkness. I think… I think it told me things, long lost whispers I can’t quite remember.” Chantal’s brow furrowed. “It reminded me of Wynne, the way she used to comfort me when I was upset. I thought, for a moment, it was her. Then I realized… I realized it wanted me to go back. I felt all these things that could be, all this unbridled joy and warmth seeping through me. I felt… Hope. I think… I think that’s what it was. A spirit of Hope.” 

Maria recalled Solas explaining that demons of despair came from hope perverted, that a spirit of hope itself, uncorrupted, would avoid the mortal world at all costs. A thing most rare and powerful, he stated while painting his murals. “Are you sure?”  

“No. And now I find I am just like Wynne.” Chantal said quietly. “The spirit bonded with me as hers did, keeps me alive the same way. She thought it would weaken, in time, but it didn’t.”

“I’ve never seen anything like what you did there and I’ve seen my share of weird.” Maria pointed out. 

“The spirit that has possessed me is stronger than what was in Wynne. If it is a spirit of Hope as I suspect… then I am one of the most powerful abominations seen in ages, perhaps ever. There is a cost to drawing that power down… when I do so the spirit weakens. I believe, one day, I will draw too much and I will perish.” 

Chantal smiled, tipped her head to rest it on top of Zevran’s. “Until then… I am who I have always been. Zevran has noticed no great change, si?” She asked, kissing his golden hair.

“You do grow more beautiful every day, but alas, you did so before your passenger joined us.” Zevran said smoothly, but underneath the jest a tone of resigned sadness. “Of course, we would escape one running clock to find another. If we did not have bad luck, we would have none at all!” 

She drew that power down for Varric. Maria blinked back sorrow, brought her hand to her abdomen instead. “I can’t… I can’t repay you for what you’ve done.” 

“You do not need to.” Chantal insisted fiercely. “I was brought back for a reason. I thought perhaps to cure the blight, to end the threat of darkspawn. To make the world a safer place for our children. But… perhaps you are part of my new calling as well.” 

Zevran snorted impatiently as if she’d made a bad joke and Chantal giggled. 

In the morning, Maria would take her leave from these people. They would continue to stagger back to Kirkwall, back to safety, somewhere she could plan. Somewhere she could think. And yet… 

“When you go back to Kirkwall, will you deliver a note to my cousin Hawke?” Chantal asked brightly. “The male one, if you please. I think the female one may be… a bit angry still. Rightly so.” 

“I wouldn’t recommend any of you step foot in the Free Marches.” Maria admitted. “Hawke and Fenris are still feeling particularly murderous over their near death miss at the hands of the last abomination you unleashed.” 

Chantal winced in guilt. “I know. I know. But… I can save Carver and Merrill from the taint, if they choose. It is a start, is it not?” 

“And then?” 

The question hung in the air for a moment before Chantal smiled victoriously, shooting a sly look in Maria’s direction. “If you have need of me, Leliana will find me. She always does. Until then, I will join the rest of Thedas and breathlessly await to see how the Inquisitor rises from the ashes.”


	32. The Oasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love you.” Varric slung Bianca back over his shoulder. He tried to remind himself not to be furious with her, but it was getting harder and harder. “I don’t know what else I can do to prove it to you.” 
> 
> He offered her a life outside the Inquisition before things went south and she balked. He pushed to save her and she fought him every step of the way. He wanted to marry her and she hesitated. 
> 
> A traitorous voice whispered he’d been down this road before. Sooner or later, he’d be at a dock waiting for another woman who never came.

“There’s something you should know before you lot head off.” 

Nothing good ever started with a sentence like that. As if thinking the same thing, Nathaniel Howe sighed wearily. 

Chantal leaned on her staff, eyes skyward like an Avaar priestess looking for omens in the clouds. “All ears, Giggles.” Varric eyed the woman carefully. When Chantal dropped her dark eyes back to them, she looked thoughtful.

“Magic like what was in your arm… the thing that ripped the sky open. It leaves an echo. A scar.” Chantal mused. 

“Yes.” Dorian snapped irritably. “We’re aware.” 

“Which is why you’re still dreaming, Mistress Cadash.” Chantal continued nonplussed. “Have you heard of somniari?” 

Dorian hissed like an aggravated cat. “I assure you that although I’ve not made friends with chasind swamp witches, been educated in barbarian towers, or gotten possessed by dubious spirits, I know what a somniari is.”

“Well.” Maria’s lips twitched with suppressed humor. “I’m glad someone does, because I don’t.” 

It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.  Dorian huffed, turned his piercing gaze to Maria. “Dreamers, my dear. Mages capable of entering the fade at will and exerting some control over it.” 

“Solas?” Maria queried. Dorian nodded, jaw tense.

“Yes, I believe so. They are quite rare. I know of few who have lived in the past fifty years, all in Tevinter.” 

“But you dream.” Chantal posited thoughtfully. “What do you dream about?” 

“Kittens.” Maria answered quickly without batting an eye. “Card games. Once, flying nugs.” 

“I’ve had the flying nug dream.” Anders chimed in. “And I was naked.” 

“Shocking.” Howe muttered. 

“I am always naked in my dreams.” Zevran grinned salaciously as he approached, the little boy on his shoulders reaching for the tree branches above them. Chantal giggled, shaking her head in amusement. 

“I do not ask to pry.” Chantal said, not unkindly. “I simply wonder… are your dreams so vivid they feel real? Do you control them?” 

For a second, Varric thought Maria would lie again. But she paused, instead, reconsidered her words before she nodded. “They’re so real that sometimes, when I wake up, I don’t know where I am. Sometimes…” Maria trailed off, shaking her head slowly. “There were wolves, before the Crossroads. A lot of them.” 

A prickle of fear raced down Varric’s neck. What was that old Dalish blessing Daisy used to say instead of just saying ‘so long’ like a normal person? 

May the dread wolf never catch your scent, his mind supplied helpfully. Another voice whispered traitorously that it was a bit late for that, wasn’t it? 

“If Solas _is_ a dreamer, if it was _his_ power that embedded itself in your hand…” Chantal shared a glance with Anders, who shrugged unhelpfully.

“Don’t ask me. I’m just here to keep you alive.” He grinned flirtatiously at Howe. “And make _someone_ a little less grumpy.” 

Varric groaned, but he didn’t miss Maria’s skeptical expression. “I’m no mage and if you tell me I am...” 

“No.” Chantal soothed softly. “No, but… I can feel something lingering. Something powerful. Perhaps the next time you dream, you should try to direct it. See if you can bend the fade to your will, no?”

“Solas would have known.” Maria stated briskly. “He…” 

“A man so arrogant as to trust his power to a madman and think he still had the upper hand?” Chantal asked dubiously. “It occurs to me that he has a habit of underestimating his opponents. But, I have been underestimated many times as well, mostly to my advantage.”  

“I feel nothing.” Dorian declared waspishly. Chantal beamed sweetly at him.

“Well, there are benefits to abominations, hm?” She asked. Anders didn’t quite suppress his snort of laughter as Dorian scowled. 

“You are playing a dangerous game.” Dorian declared imperiously. “One that’s been played before with cataclysmic results. There is a cost to consorting with the unknown.” 

“Yes.” Chantal didn’t seem ruffled at all. “But that’s why I belong with the swamp witches and barbarians and all the other wild things, Ser Pavus.” 

Dorian, finally, seemed at a loss for words. He glared down at Maria who held her hand out to Chantal with a small smile. “It was a pleasure to meet the Hero of Ferelden.” 

“Likewise.” Chantal took Maria’s hand and bowed elegantly over it, playful and joyous. “Herald.” 

“And if you are ever lonely…” Zevran began, waggling his eyebrows. Varric was beginning to sympathize with Fenris, it was much less amusing on this side of the equation. Chantal giggled again, pushing Zevran down the path. The elf threw a cheerful wink over his shoulder as he began walking the path to the East, towards the mountains, Ferelden. 

They’d be heading northwest, circling Lake Celestine before ending up on the right side of the Waking Sea. Then it was simply a matter of finding Beatrix and dragging her by the ear back to the Free Marches. 

“Anders.” Maria held out her hand. Anders hesitated only a moment before taking her hand as well, shaking it firmly.

“You know, I considered turning myself in.” Anders grinned charmingly. “Figured if I was going to do it, you’d be the best person to hand myself over to. You seem… remarkably well-rounded and reasonable for the head of a heretical religious movement.”

“You’d be surprised how often I hear that.” Maria wrinkled her nose in exasperation.

“Plus, I’ve never been able to resist being at the mercy of a beautiful woman either.” Anders winked. Howe scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t let me catch you.” Maria advised sagely. “This was one-time, Anders. I won’t protect you if you show up, even if…” 

“Noted.” Anders chirped cheerfully. “Congratulations, again.” 

Maria nodded, turning away from Howe and Anders. She met Varric’s eyes with a tight smile and a jerk of her chin. 

“He wants to say he’s sorry.” Cole muttered. “For the hurt, for heartache, for…” 

“I know, sweetheart.” Maria cooed, linking her arm with his. “C’mon, let’s give Varric a minute.” 

Dorian fell in beside her and they began heading up the opposite path, the road to the small town of Velun. Anders jerked his head at Howe and the other man began following Zevran and Chantal’s cheerful chatter. The silence between Varric and Anders loomed oppressive. 

“Any elaborate revenge fantasies starring me?” Anders asked suddenly. “Boiling in oil? That one never gets old.” 

“Too prosaic.” Varric muttered immediately. “And not nearly bloody enough.” 

“I fucked up.” 

“Why?” The one question he’d wanted to ask since the moment the chantry exploded above the Kirkwall skyline. “Damnit, Anders, why?” 

“Justice was corrupted and I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell what was right or wrong anymore. Chantal… Chantal thinks maybe it was the taint in my blood, the thing that made me a warden, but… I’m still responsible. I should have told you, told Hawke, killed myself before I let…” 

“Damn right you should have told us!” Varric wanted to shake him. “You should have let us help you!” 

“I thought you were.” Anders said softly. “I… I wasn’t in my right mind and I’m sorry. I can’t get the blood off my hands. I never will. But I wasn’t the only one at fault, Varric.” 

He hadn’t been. Damnit, he hadn’t been. Meredith spiraled into her madness in full view of all of them, the red lyrium spurring her on. The chantry was the spark, but Kirkwall in those final terrible weeks was a powder keg. “Hawke could have died. Not just there, at the Gallows, but at Skyhold. Maria could have died.” 

“And that… that I’d never be able to live with. Not Hawke, not… not your pretty Herald either.” Anders smiled, gentle and soft. “The woman who tore you away from your crossbow. Never thought I’d see it.” 

“I should kill you for what you did.” He should, it would be justice. It would be his penance for not seeing it earlier, for letting Anders continue to roam unhindered, unchecked, because Varric trusted him. It might help remove some of the blood staining his hands. 

“Maybe.” Anders admitted sadly. “But I promise if you don’t, I’m going to do something to make up for it. I… I believe in Chantal. I believe she’s got a higher purpose.” 

Varric knew what it was like to believe in a woman who seemed more miraculous than life itself. “Don’t you dare come back to Kirkwall. Don’t you dare come near Hawke and Broody or their baby, or I swear on my Ancestors…” 

“I know.” Anders slumped in on himself. “Make sure that woman of yours eats. Ginger and dried bread or crackers if she’s sick. Lots of water. _Seriously_ reconsider naming your crossbow. Don't start an exalted march until after the baby comes." 

"She'll be alright?" Varric almost couldn't believe he'd be this lucky. "They're both alright?"

"It's a bloody miracle, I know. They certainly shouldn't be, but they are. She may be the luckiest bitch in Thedas." 

Or it was a miracle. The Maker and Andraste  finally giving their Herald a break. Varric extended his hand slowly, leveling his gaze at Anders. "Goodbye Blondie." 

Anders nodded, teeth gritted with suppressed emotion when he took Varric's hand and shook it briskly. "Thank you. You were a better friend than I deserved."

 

"This is your fault." Maria accused. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and doubled over again as if there was anything left in her stomach to come back up. 

Varric winced and carefully wound wisps of her red hair around his fingers to keep them clear of Maria's mouth while gently rubbing a tight circle on her lower back. "I know." 

"It's unfair." Maria grumbled. 

"At least if I'm not sick, I can be helpful." Varric reasoned smoothly. "Who was holding your hair back before I showed up, hm?" 

"Dorian." Cole answered obliviously. 

Varric sighed, defeated, as Dorian's mustache twitched in amusement. "I held her hair back and I didn't even cause this dreadful condition! Truly, I'm a marvel of friendship." 

"A saint among men." Maria added sourly. "Cole, can I…" 

Before she could finish, Cole pushed a waterskin into her grasping fingers.  Maria straightened and took a small, experimental sip of the liquid. She swished it around her mouth for a moment before spitting it back on the ground and wiping her mouth on the stub of her other arm, handing it back to Cole. 

"At this rate, we won't be making it to Velun by nightfall regardless." Dorian squared his shoulders, readying himself for a fight. "We must be at least halfway there. I suggest we find a spot to make camp and attempt to feed your spawn something you can keep down." 

Varric dropped Maria's hair and pinched the bridge of his nose over her shoulder. Frankly, he agreed. If he saw Maria try to hide a yawn one more time he might…

"Alright." Maria shrugged affably. 

Dorian released the inhale he'd taken in preparation to argue, shoulders sagging with relief. "You're seeing reason? Absurd. Who are you and what have you done with my Cadash?" 

"And yet you're still complaining! I just can't satisfy you." She threw her arm up in exasperation. "I don't have anywhere to hurry to, do I? Bea's loose and in the wind, so the guild won't ever catch her. I've not got the first clue on how to deal with Solas. And I'm not really particularly looking forward to dealing with the political and personal fallout of this… disaster. So, yes. Let's please take our time." 

She huffed out a breath and glared up at Dorian but the Tevinter mage’s face simply softened into something warm and honest. “My dear Maria, do you have any idea how _good_ it is to see you like this?” 

It was like sitting down at a five course home-cooked meal after a week on gruel. Better than a never-ending card game full of laughter and raucous jokes. It was like coming home. Maria continued to glare up at Dorian, so aggravated the very tips of her ears were turning red. “See me like this?” She repeated, astonished. “Betrayed, armless, filthy, and on the run?” 

“Alive.” Cole whispered. “Fighting. Fierce.” 

“I think the dirt is charming, Princess.” Varric claimed with a bright grin. “Nothing sexier than a woman who doesn’t mind mucking it with the rest of us.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Dorian griped, turning on his heel. “I believe we passed the perfect spot to camp just a short distance back.” 

Varric shook his head as Dorian spun elegantly back the way they came. Maria shook her head and began to storm after him, caught only by Varric’s gentle fingers on her remaining elbow. “Hey, we’ll figure it out. Solas, the guild, all the bullshit. We’ll get through it. I promise.” 

“I just wish…” The words rushed out of her mouth before she could stop them, before she dragged them back in with one long breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Your wish is my command after all.” Varric sauntered beside her as she pulled free impatiently. “So what does my lady desire? Pickles? Smutty literature? A massage?” 

“My bow.” Cole whispered. 

“Cole.” Maria sighed and rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, both weary and sad. “Cole, I…” 

“Hold on.” The idea had been bouncing in his head, both utterly impossible and tantalizingly close at hand since she’d woken up. “I want to try something, if you’re up for it.” 

“You’ve already implanted your seed in her, what more is there left to try?” Dorian demanded impatiently. Varric ignored him rather pointedly, slinging Bianca off his back. 

“Too winchy.” Maria started immediately. “Remember?” 

“Yes, but what can I say? I like my women complicated.” Varric winked roguishly, opened the arms of the bow wide. 

Dorian muttered something that sounded like muted agreement, but Maria didn’t look amused. One of her eyebrows rose just about into her hairline as Varric pressed the bow against her arm. “I want you to try it.” 

“I don’t know if you’ve realized yet, but I lack your impressive upper body strength.” Maria began dryly, not moving to take it. Varric rolled his eyes.

“If Cole can shoot it once, so can you.”

Maria relented, shouldering the weight of the bow awkwardly with her good arm. Dorian paused ahead of them, peering back in silence. After a second of fumbling, Maria pressed Bianca against her shoulder firmly, using it to steady the bow. Her fingers curled tightly around the trigger. 

It wouldn’t do long-term. Even with practice and time, her slender, curvy form wasn’t meant to swing a weapon like Bianca around. But it was a start. Varric gestured at one of the trees with a flourish. “Be my guest.” 

“Varric, it’s awkward.” She complained, shifting a bit with the weight. 

“Because it’s bigger than you are, Princess. But I know you’re not afraid of a challenge.” Not his Maria, not the Herald of Andraste. Maria steeled herself visibly, eyes lighting on various targets in front of them before she picked one of the trees. Her eyes narrowed and she took a nearly imperceptible step backwards, bracing her shoulder against the bow. 

The bolt flew with magic ease as soon as she squeezed the trigger, embedded itself just shy of center in a tree a decent distance back. With practice, she’d be hitting targets like she was born to. Varric heard the next bolt rattle into place effortlessly, with no need for her to reload. 

Damnit, it would work. Not with Bianca, but something smaller, lighter, something… 

When he looked back at her face, he was almost shocked at the darkness clouding it. She thrust the bow back out to him wordlessly. “Take it.” She demanded. 

Her face looked like a thundercloud and Varric couldn’t think of how he’d mistepped. He needed to proceed carefully. “If the design could be adapted to one-hand…” 

“And who would be adapting this design?” Maria asked quietly. “Bianca?” 

From the corner of his eye, Varric saw Dorian quickly shake his head as if in warning. “Probably not.” Varric met Maria’s gaze levelly. “But between Dagna and Harritt…” 

“They work for the Inquisition, which doesn’t exist. Not anymore.” 

He continued on, slowly, carefully. “They’d come to help you, wherever you are. If they had the original, they could reverse engineer it…” 

“Could. Maybe.” Maria glared furiously. “It’s not that easy, if it was, somebody else would be hawking copies of that crossbow on every street corner.” 

“I haven’t exactly given it up for anyone else.” Varric couldn’t help the exasperation in his voice. “Andrate’s ass, there isn’t any harm in trying.” 

“There is!” Maria let go of the bow, leaving Varric no choice but to scramble to catch it. “Why do you act like everything is so _easy_ to fix? I’m broken and you can’t just act like we can go back to the fairytale ending.” 

The argument they were having had little to do with the bow. “You’re not broken and this isn’t a fairytale. If it was, you’d be riding off into the sunset with Curly right now, not vomiting off the side of the road with the three of us.” 

“Cullen does have the Prince Charming good looks, doesn’t he?” Dorian broke in lightly. “If you two are quite done…” 

“I love you.” Varric slung Bianca back over his shoulder. He tried to remind himself not to be furious with her, but it was getting harder and harder. “I don’t know what else I can do to prove it to you.” 

He offered her a life outside the Inquisition before things went south and she balked. He pushed to save her and she fought him every step of the way. He wanted to marry her and she hesitated. 

A traitorous voice whispered he’d been down this road before. Sooner or later, he’d be at a dock waiting for another woman who never came. 

But Maria did come, he reminded himself. She swirled in like a blaze of fire, torched the remnants of his past, offered him a future he could barely fathom. The hurt he felt wasn’t… unreasonable or completely unjustified. But she was who she was, and Varric liked them complicated. 

“I love you too.” Maria whispered, eyes downcast as if frightened to meet his. “Don’t you see that?” 

He heard it in her voice, and that was enough. “Yes, yes.” Dorian muttered darkly. “You’re both daft idiots who we love dearly. Come along, let’s find a half-way decent spot to camp.” 

Maria tore herself away first, following in Dorian’s footsteps in a rush. Varric stared after her with unconcealed longing. 

“It’s an old hurt.” Cole whispered. “A man in an expensive chair, appraising her while he tells her where she belongs. In the dirt, in the mud, in the shadows. New wounds, blood on a battlefield and fear of a world where marguerites can’t grow because she brings the battle home. It’s a knife through a chest, a blade in her back. She survives fire, but she doesn’t know what else can.” 

“I know, kid.” Varric muttered wearily. “I know.” 

“But she wants to come home.” Cole smiled softly. “And you know the way.” 

 

Velun reminded him of how he pictured Lothering when Hawke spoke of it. A little, unassuming, utterly boring town. The largest building, a wooden chantry with a weathered statue of Andraste next to the chanter’s board, would fit inside the smallest building in Val Royeaux. The handful of times they ventured this far west, on one of Maria’s excursions to the Western Approach or the Forbidden Oasis or the Hissing Wastes or some other blighted desert they hadn’t even thought to approach this little town. They took their last day of rest and restocking in Val Foret, to the north. 

Still, it was idyllic in its way. As far from the gilded halls of Halamshiral as they could get at any rate. Still, Maria pulled her hood up to hide the bright halo of hair surrounding her face, held her missing arm still as she could while they waited for the woman behind the bar. 

“The Qunari are about to invade, Sam, I swear!” Maria tipped her head to the side, listening. “They murdered the Inquisitor and the Divine and…” 

“You’re daft.” Another man muttered. “And too deep in your cups.” 

“The merchant said so!” 

“And the King of Ferelden is goin’ to marry Celene.” Another man laughed. 

“I’d pay to see that.” Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Or perhaps not.” 

“Keys to your rooms. I’ll have the girls bring up food and baths.” The woman handed them to Dorian, bending over and displaying ample cleavage trussed nearly up to her chin. “Let me know if you need any help, handsome.”

Despite himself, Dorian winked and the woman flushed a nice shade of red. Maria sighed, shook her head. “Can’t take him anywhere.”  
“I don’t want to hear it.” Dorian pressed his hand high up on her back as they turned to the stairs. “Do you know how agonizing it is to watch every decent young man trip over themselves in your presence? One flutter of your lashes and they fall to your feet.” 

He couldn’t see Maria’s expression under her hood, but her voice sounded cold and hard. “Luckily for you, one-armed women aren’t in much demand.” 

Dorian winced while Maria plucked one set of keys out of his hands. It was Cole that slipped into the awkward silence, endearingly confused. “But you’re beautiful. Varric thinks so.” 

Thank the Maker for Cole. He was going to buy the kid a hundred new hats, as many as he wanted. Maria’s fingers paused, shocked into stillness for a second before the keys rattled in her palm and she took the stairs in silence. Cole looked after her, brow furrowed.

“Fasta vass.” Dorian exclaimed. “Varric, you have to do something.” 

Varric suddenly knew exactly what he needed to do, for him. For her. “On it, Sparkler.” 

The wooden bathtub was too small for both of them, which was unfortunate, but it’d more than serve his purpose. Maria flicked papers aside irritably, squinting at handwriting he recognized as Cullen’s. A report she’d stuffed in her bag before fleeing Halamshiral, most likely. Now it was simply something to keep her hands busy, to fill the heavy and fraught silence that existed between the two of them.

It was full of unspoken recrimination, frustration, failure and secrets. It was as jagged and sharp as she was. Still, Varric slipped his tunic off first before looking over his shoulder at her on the bed. “You first, Princess. I doused myself in that stream, at least.” 

To get all the blood off after her daring rescue. She deserved to be thanked for that, thoroughly. The papers in her hands quit their incessant rattling and she looked up, a flash of fear in her eyes before she could quash it. He watched her try to find an angle to slip through, watched her accept defeat and slowly shuffle the papers off to the side. 

She brought her hand to the laces at her throat like she was wrapping a noose around her neck, but Varric didn’t look away. It was hard to keep his features calm, neutral. More difficult than he anticipated, seeing what this cost her. Still, when the neck of the shirt widened enough she shuffled awkwardly, pulling it up and off with a brisk motion. The speed nearly hid how she fumbled to do it. 

The remains of her arm had been angry, red, newly scarred when he last saw it. Now, the scars faded to thin white lines over pale freckled skin. Anders was always one of the best healers and he’d sped up the process by weeks. Varric knew better than to let his gaze linger on her arm, returned his eyes to her face before she worked up the courage to meet his gaze with a determined one of her own. 

Andraste, but she was brave. Varric waited, patiently, until her eyes dropped back to the bustier barely supporting her swollen breasts. Her fingers caught the first fastener, popped it open without much fumbling as if it was giving up a losing battle, but it took her longer for the other ones. The last one she struggled with longest before it too fell open and she slipped the garment from her sloped shoulders.

Angry red lines stood stark against her pale skin left behind from the boning pressing too long against her. Varric fought back an unreasonable surge of irritation, the possessive part of him clamoring that the only marks on her supple flesh should be the ones _he_ left behind. 

“I’m going to be honest.” Maria didn’t meet his eyes, already fumbling with the cotton breeches. “I’ve no idea how I’m going to get that back on. I’ve been sleeping in it for days rather than chance needing to introduce Dorian to women’s undergarments.”  

And he was sure it was uncomfortable, especially considering how her breasts had grown. “I’ll help if you need it.” He said instead, voice pitched low and comforting. 

Within his own trousers, his cock swelled to half-mast. He grit his teeth against the urge to release it and turned his back instead. He didn’t turn around again until he heard the water lap at the sides of the tub and the splash of Maria’s body sinking into the warm water. 

The breathy moan she released as warm water soothed sore muscles did nothing for his self-control, but he breathed in through his nose and perched himself on the lone chair in the room, watching as Maria sniffed cautiously at a bar of soap before dipping it into the water. He watched her in silence, even as she dunked her head back beneath the water, a stream of bubbles emerging for several seconds before she surfaced, sleek as a sea goddess. She blinked the water from her eyes and pushed her darkened hair back with her hand. 

Then, slowly, she put it back down on top of the water. Shifting, she brought the other arm forward so she could examine them both nearly side by side. A lump formed in Varric’s throat as her eyes traced her own skin, the scars, the clean nub. She compared it to the other one, eyes flicking between the two limbs. She blinked several times in rapid succession. 

She hadn’t looked. She hadn’t had time to look since the first time. 

“Do you remember the oasis?” 

At the sound of his low voice, she ripped her gaze from her damaged arm to him, narrowing her eyes. “Of course I do.” 

“I can’t forget it.” He never would. He didn’t close his eyes, didn’t tear them away from hers. “It was so damn hot.” 

Scorching, even at night. He’d managed to fall asleep anyway, but when he woke up he discovered Maria’s absence from her bedroll beside his. He ducked out of the tent, past the saluting Inquisition scout who wordlessly pointed him back towards the oasis. 

He’d been annoyed as he began to make his way quietly past the spindleweed and blood lotus. There were spiders out here as big as houses, for Andraste’s sake, and of course Maria felt like she could just take a midnight stroll…

All his thoughts went out the window and all his blood rushed southward the moment he turned around a boulder and caught sight of her. Her clothes discarded in a pile and her standing, bare as the day she was born, hip deep in the clear, cool water. She glowed under the stars and the moon like a goddess, like Andraste herself. 

“You turned and looked over your shoulder, beads of water running down your skin, and you called my name.” It had been enough to set him on fire from the inside out. Enough to unravel him completely. 

Maria bit her lip, and he remembered that she’d done the same thing that night to prevent the whimpers escaping her trembling body from becoming full moans. “I wanted to trace poems into your skin. I wanted to make you shatter, I wanted to bring you to the edge so many times the only thing you could remember was my name.” 

And he had. With his lips, his tongue, his fingers. He bathed her wildly trembling body with his attentions until she couldn’t hold back her screams of pleasure anymore and he’d had to swallow them whole from her mouth.

Maria’s skin, already flushed pink from the warm water, was turning crimson. “Varric…” 

“I thought I’d never see you like that again.” If she wanted to see the jagged, sharp parts of his soul too, he could show her. “I thought I’d have to take that bloody bed to my grave. The last time I ever had you would have been on your deathbed.” 

He could kick himself for going through with it. What had he been thinking? They’d been delusional with grief, with fear, desperate and insane. “I hurt you. The blood on you... it was from me, wasn’t it? Not the baby.” His stomach twisted at the rawness of it, the guilt threatening to drag him down. “So much for being a selfless lover.” 

“I would have hardly realized if you were hurting me or not. Everything hurt, I just…” Maria trailed off helplessly, staring down at her arms again. “I just wanted to be with you.” She admitted. 

You could always be with me, he thought morosely. Just say yes. 

“I want to be with you now.” Varric let his voice drop even lower. “When I look at you, all I can think about is the oasis. You moaning my name. I need to hear it again.” 

He needed to erase that bed covered in blood from his memories. He needed to lose himself in her as much as she needed him to do so. “You’re beautiful.” He whispered softly, watching water droplets slide down the firm skin of her breasts. “The most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.” 

Maria let her eyes flit back to the stub of her arm and Varric stood from the chair, made his way around the small tub. He brought his fingers to the scarred shoulder, hovering just over the skin, waiting for her to object. When she didn’t, he traced his calloused fingers over the silken slope, down her upper arm. He followed it with his lips, tracing the delicate scars until his fingers reached the nub where her arm ceased to be, then he traced his fingers softly back up. “I need you.” 

In his life. In his bed. In his heart. He needed her to come home and never leave. He needed their child laughing in the garden, he needed her driving Aveline to distraction, he needed her scattered reports and her sultry voice. 

“It isn’t just the arm.” Maria’s eyes were closed, but she leaned unconsciously into his touch. 

No, it wasn’t, she was right. He moved his mouth to her ear, traced the lobe with his broken nose before he began to whisper scorching words against her warm skin. 

“I love you on your brightest days.” He promised. The day she sealed the breach, the day she swept all of Halamshiral off their feet. “And on your darkest nights.” 

The screams in the deep roads. Her face when they left Stroud in the fade. Begging Solas to change his mind. 

“You’re not made to be loved in parts, Maria. You were meant to be loved fully, completely, as the whole person you still are.” 

Her eyes blazed when she turned to him, water sloshing to the floor in buckets. Her wet skin pressed against his bare chest and her mouth was on his, demanding, punishing as her fingers dug half-moons into his shoulders. Then she pulled back, her eyes sparking with something torn between fury and delight. “You nearly died dragging me through the crossroads.” 

He claimed her mouth with his again before answer, dizzy with relief, with irritation. “You gave up.” 

“You offered to sell your soul.” 

He dragged her up out of the tub, letting water cascade down her drenched form. “Damn right I did. And I’d do it again.” 

She was between him and the bed, splayed out over the sheets, breasts in his hands. And her cries sounded delicious when he brushed his thumbs over pebbled nipples. She arched into his touch insistently, begging wordlessly for more. 

Varric could do that. He let his hands skim her sides as he stared down at her in wonder. “You came running to my rescue.” 

“Of course I did.” She muttered impatiently. “Was there any doubt?” 

He pressed his grin against her neck. “No, I suppose there wasn’t.”


	33. Childhood Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to drink because there’s a wonderful bottle of whiskey down there I can’t have.” 
> 
> “Alcoholism by proxy. Charming.” Without further ado, Dorian tapped the neck of the bottle and the cork popped out. An interesting twist on magic serving man, surely. “And which sorrow of yours am I drowning, Cadash?” 
> 
> Dorian is the best friend a heretical religious figure can have.

_ The note said to meet him at the Chantry. It was passed to her in the street by one of his apprentices, a shy looking lad missing a tooth. She slipped the boy a piece of candy and tucked the note in her jacket pocket, right over her heart.  _

_ She hadn’t seen him in days. Nanna thought she gave him up. His father thought she’d left him rather than play second fiddle to a wife. Meanwhile, they held their breath and snuck through the streets to meet each other in the middle of the night. So, when the last person in her grandmother’s house dropped off to sleep, Maria unlatched her window and slipped down into the alley before stalking the shadows.  _

_ He was right where he said he’d be, lurking in the dark shadows near an alley off to the side of the impressive stone building. Ivy climbed up the wall near his head, covered the side of Andraste’s tender face as she peered out from a relief in the awning. She made a small, involuntary, noise in her throat when she caught sight of him, threw herself into his waiting arms. He closed them tight around her, spun her so she rested against the soft, fragrant ivy before he devoured her mouth in a kiss that seemed to border on the edge of madness. He kissed her like he feared he never would again. That thought chilled her to the bone, made her make a muffled noise of protest into his mouth while she pulled away, staring into his bottomless eyes. “Fynn?”  _

_ He didn’t let go of her waist and leaned forward, pressed his forehead against hers. “Can you open that door?” He growled low, indicating the door further down the alley with a barely perceptible incline of his head.  _

_ “I opened your safe, didn’t I?” She asked, bringing her hand up to his temple, tangling into the soft hair there, anchoring him against her. Fynn chuckled warmly, leaning into her touch.  _

_ “Open it.” He begged roughly, and alarm bells were going off again. Fynn demanding she break into the chantry, of all places? _

_ “What is…”  _

_ “I’ll explain when we’re inside, I swear.” He pressed his lips desperately against hers one more time before pulling away, uncaging her from the wall. He’d pressed her against the side of the building so hard that bits of ivy clung to her back, the leaves falling to the ground crumbled and bruised when she moved away. _

_ His hand rested on the small of her back while she popped the lock open. When the tumblers clicked, she slipped the picks back into her jacket and opened it with a theatrical relish. Without preamble, Fynn shoved her inside. A flash of irritation made her protest with a muffled curse that echoed louder in the empty, hollow space than she’d have liked. She paused, waiting to hear the swish of a mother’s nightdress across the floors. The chantry remained completely quiet and dark except for the moon pouring through the windows above them.  _

_ “You’re lucky this isn’t one of the places that does the chant all the time.” Maria chided in a whisper. “I heard Val Royeaux does, and Starkhaven.”  _

_ “I still don’t see the appeal of this place.” He muttered, looking askance at the large plaster of Andraste towering up over them. Maria tried not to laugh. He didn’t see her fascination at all, but she kind of liked the smell of incense and the sisters that gave her little gang of street urchins bread. Even the song sounded pretty. _

_ “I think Andraste’s lovely, don’t you?” She teased lightly. “We can light a candle for her, if you want.”  _

_ She paused, thoughtful. “Although I guess that’s a fire hazard if everyone’s asleep.”  _

_ “Do you think she’s paying attention?” Fynn asked dourly, following her as she walked several paces into the deserted building.  _

_ “I think the story says the Maker doesn’t care what happens here anymore, but I don’t know if Andraste’s still looking.” She shrugged carelessly and ambled closer to the figure, peering up into her downturned face. “Nanna doesn’t care for this place either, but I guess I’m just a bad dwarf.”  _

_ “You’re perfect.”  _

_ She barely hushed her laugh, turning to chastise him, but his face was a steady in sadness, almost as heavy with it as Andraste’s. He looked like he wanted to memorize her against the red banners, the gray stone lady looming over them, the extinguished cold candles.  _

_ Something had gone disastrously wrong. She knew it before he cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Apparently, my wedding has been scheduled for next week.” He began lowly, softly.  _

_ She always knew he’d break her heart, but she didn’t realize how much it’d feel like a dagger between her ribs. Her first immediate thought was denial, that somehow she misheard him. “What?”  _

_ “I won’t be attending.” He continued, taking a step to breach the chasm between the two of them. Maria took an immediate step backward and he froze, palms out, placating. “I’m not marrying her.”  _

_ If he didn’t go, they’d know why. As if he read her thoughts, Fynn’s eyes burned with fury. “I was informed if I didn’t go through with it, there are assassins waiting to kill you.”  _

_ At least it was just her. At least it wasn’t Nanna and Bea. Maria brought her closed fist up to her lips to stifle the near-sob she couldn’t hold back. “Who?”  _

_ A silly question. Who wouldn’t take a sanctioned hit from the Merchant’s Guild for the heiress to one of the most lucrative Carta families? Fynn shook his head. “I don’t know.” He admitted.  _

_ If he didn’t marry her, she was dead. If he did marry her, she thought she might die anyway.  _

_ “We can run away.” Fynn whispered softly into the darkness. “You know all the fastest ships, I’ve got enough money hidden away to get us started somewhere else. We can leave, together. Antiva, Rivain, anywhere you want to go.”  _

_ Her heart pounded in her ears. “There’s a blight in Ferelden. Everyone says…”  _

_ “Notice Ferelden wasn’t on my list.” Fynn muttered, took a step forward again. Maria didn’t back away so he took another one. “Maria, I’ve got a plan to get us out of here. I promise.”  _

_ “I’d never be able to see my family again.” The words tumbled from her lips, too high-pitched, too shrill. “I’ll never see my  sister again.”  _

_ “She can come too.” Fynn reached out, wrapped his fingers around her arm. “I want Magpie to come. She can… I don’t know, she’ll probably grow up to be a raider, but I want her to come with us. We can start from scratch, we can make it.”  _

_ She’d still never see Nanna again. Never see Ostwick again. “What will I do?” She asked, panic clawing at her throat. “Get fat and have babies?”  _

_ “We’ll find something for you to do.” Fynn murmured softly. “I know. I know I’m asking for a lot…”  _

_ He was asking for her whole life. He wanted her to chuck it in the bin and follow him into the abyss. “But I can’t live like this and neither can you. We’ve… we’ve got to make a decision. Tonight.”  _

_ His fingers trailed down her arm, tangling with her own. Slowly, he dropped to one knee, fingers gripping hers tightly. “I don’t even have a damn ring and I can’t buy you one right now, but I swear on our Ancestors, I will. Will you come with me? Will you marry me?” _

_ Impossible. It would be a disaster, but she loved him. She was clever and he was strong, if anyone could make it… Andraste rose up over their figures like a caring mother, her arms outstretched with fire in her palm.  _

_ Her parents weddings rings were on a leather cord around her neck and it felt fated that she had them. She pulled them from her shirt, clasped her free hand tight around them as she looked down into his face, memorizing the crinkle at the corner of his eye. The way he smiled, slow and tentative, as if he knew he’d already won.  _

_ “Yes.” It was easy, so damn easy. “Yes.”  _

_ He whispered the plan into her mouth between urgent, desperate kisses. Hercinia, he needed to pick up supplies. She’d say she couldn’t bear to stay and watch him marry someone else, and Nanna wouldn’t think twice about letting her go wherever she wished to spare her the heartache. She’d ask Bea to come, beg Bea to come, and she’d circle back to Hercinia. She’d find them a ship and they’d go somewhere. Anywhere. Together. _

_ “Take this with you.” She whispered, slipping her father’s ring on his finger. “We’ll do it properly when we can, but I don’t want to wait. I don’t…”  _

_ “I won’t change my mind.” He promised, but he allowed her to do it anyway. Then, gently, he pulled her mothers ring from the necklace and slid it onto her finger. “I love you. I promise. We’ll make it work.”  _

_ Above her, in the rafters, a crow cawed impatiently, as if in warning. It jarred her enough to make her remember, to make her pull back. This wasn’t real, Fynn died. This was simply an echo of the last moments they shared.  _

_ The last time she’d ever seen him.  _

_ She slept and summoned him to haunt her, but the moment she remembered Fynn vanished into the shadows and Maria turned to look at the door they’d come through.  _

_ Open it, she thought forcefully. Leave this place. Let Fynn rest in peace.  _

_ She reached out with her right hand unthinkingly, watched as it rose to rest on the door handle, the anchor sparking in her palm. The burst of light alarmed, made her cry out and pull back, waiting for the pain, the agony…  _

 

Her fingers dug into the sheets next to her, but the burn didn’t come. Then, the emptiness struck her through the heart like an arrow and she opened her eyes, convinced she’d be confronted with an empty room even as she pushed herself up. 

But Varric’s form slumped forward in the desk chair, head resting on top of his arm as if he’d just meant to rest his eyes for a moment. The knot of tension inside her chest loosened just enough to allow her to breathe as she slipped from under the thin quilt. The cool air evening air drifted through a window cracked open, prickled flesh still singing in the aftermath of his tender attentions.

Damnit if Varric wasn’t going to try to glue all her broken pieces back together with nothing but his voice dripping both sin and love and those hands that knew just how to touch her. Varric didn’t know when to quit, when to give up. 

Maker, she loved him. She loved him so much her heart could burst with it. 

She slipped to his side like a ghost, pinning the quilt to her chest with her useless stub while her left hand reached out to brush his hair from his cheek. He didn’t stir from sleep and she smiled at the mess of papers surrounding him. In the darkness, she couldn’t tell what roused him from their bed, but something needed to be spilled onto paper. 

Some sort of heartache. Probably one she put there. The thought slammed through her like a knife in her heart and she took a step back, dropping the quilt and reaching for her clothes. She was right about the bustier, there was no way she'd get it on by herself, but Varric's shirt was baggy and loose and despite the awkwardness, she'd gotten better at shimmying in and out of her pants. 

When she pulled them up her hips, her fingers brushed the small metal circle poking through the fabric of her left pocket. She traced the shape gently, Varric’s ring still shoved where she’d put it when she ripped it off her necklace to send her trap to Davri. The necklace had been a gift from Nanna, but she hated it when she got it. Felt like it put a big sign around her neck of who she was, the Cadash heiress destined to spend her life paying bribes, ducking the guards, dancing in the shadows of Ostwick and every other port city in Thedas, selling a glowing rock that made her damn teeth hurt. 

Nanna didn’t see the problem with it because Nanna chose that life, slipped out of Orzammar like a thief in the night with a rogue who spun tales of life in the sun. Maria had been good at it, brilliant really, but her heart wasn’t in it. Maybe that’s why she had loved Fynn so damn much, he’d been the first person to see it. 

But she didn’t love doing anything as much as she loved being Inquisitor. Not always, and not at first, but slowly it became like breathing. Easy, natural, a smile for everyone even when her arm hurt, even when she was exhausted. Ordering refugees fed and clothed and watching people scurry to make it happen because it was the right thing to do, because she said to do it, it didn’t really matter. 

She watched starving children put fat on their ribs and knew she made it happen. Not alone, never alone, but she was vital. It was as satisfying as sneaking candy to the apprentices in Fynn’s shop had been. She meant something, her life made things better. She hadn’t known that was what she wanted, what she needed, until it landed in her lap in a heretical, hilarious package. 

Now… she wasn’t the Inquisitor. She wasn’t a lyrium smuggler either. She could be the Herald they always accused her of being, although that idea seemed too daunting to hold in her hands. She wasn’t an archer, despite how thrilled she’d been to set a bolt loose before reality came crashing back down. She was still Bea’s older sister, valiantly trying to pull her from the danger she stumbled into recklessly (same as Bea always stumbled into danger, pants down around her ankles and a laughing grin.) She was still the woman of Varric’s love poems, on her best days, she may still be the woman he wrote about in his latest novel. 

She would be the mother of his child, and when she went back to Kirkwall with him Bran would announce her as the Viscount’s mistress. 

It doesn’t have to be that way, a small voice insisted hopefully. 

She finished lacing up her breeches, ignoring the nagging suspicion that they’d gotten tighter. The sleeve of Varric’s tunic fluttered uselessly around the empty place where her arm had been, but she didn’t bother to roll it up. It took her only a moment to find the kitchen downstairs, to tiptoe like a shadow around the lad in front of the dim fireplace snoring softly. 

She didn’t know the first thing about wine, but she knew which one looked expensive, so she grabbed the opposite one. She knew Dorian didn’t drink to get drunk, like she did, but rather to complain outrageously about the piss poor alcohol he was forced to imbibe in this land of barbarians. After a moment's hesitation, she tucked the bottle of wine under her right arm and grabbed a jar of pickles with her left hand before hauling her ill gotten goods back upstairs, not to the room where Varric still slept soundly at the desk, but to the one across the hall filled with the snores of her favorite Magister. 

She sat both things down on the desk in his room before she settled on his bed, poking him hard in the chest. “Wake up.” 

He muttered sleepily, so she poked him more insistently. When he still refused to budge Maria sighed and pulled one of the spare pillows from beside his head. She whacked him with it, hard enough to show she meant business. He sputtered in his mother tongue, grabbing the pillow with one hand and igniting his other one in either rage or fighting instinct. Maria didn’t flinch, but smiled charmingly when his bleary dark eyes met hers. “Oh good, you’re awake.” 

She loved the sound of cursing in foreign tongues. It was a serious effort to keep her face serene as she scooted off the bed and back to the desk, picking up the wine and presenting it with a flourish. “I found this bottle of wine and I just had to give it to you.” 

“Cadash…” Dorian glared at her evenly. “Do you southerners have no respect for sleep?” 

“None whatsoever.” She stated helpfully. 

“What time is it?” 

“Well, it’s late enough that the tavern downstairs is empty, but not early enough for any of the staff to be getting up yet.” She continued on serenely, tossing the bottle lightly in the air and giving him no choice but to catch it. She turned back to the jar of pickles and held it up for him. “I need help opening this.” 

Dorian simply stared at her, mouth open, dumbfounded as she sidled back over to the bed and collapsed on the edge of it. Finally, his mouth seemed to start working again. “Have you murdered Varric? Is that why I’m now required to open jars for you? Andraste’s asscheeks, what is that? Pickles? You’re going to eat pickles in  _ my _ bed?” 

“Only if you open them.” She fluttered her lashes. “Please? I brought you wine and Varric’s sleeping.” 

“I was sleeping! You maddening…” Despite himself, Dorian took the jar from her hands and twisted the cap effortlessly. Maria heard a satisfying pop and very nearly snatched it back from him, tossing the lid over her shoulder. Dorian made a small gagging sound as the smell of vinegar saturated the room. “Where is Cole? Can he not accomplish these things for you?”  

“I don’t know. He’ll turn up.” The pickled crunched in her mouth and it was salty and  _ perfect _ . Easily the best thing she’d ever eaten. She bit back a delighted, satisfied moan. Dorian was examining her closely now, reaching behind him to light a candle on the nightstand. 

“Well, you do look deliciously rumpled. As if you took a much needed bath, then participated in vigorous activities requiring a second bath.” Dorian accepted defeat gracefully, pushing the quilt down his bare tanned chest and examining the bottle she’d thrown at him critically. “And you’ve worked up an appetite! I always knew we kept Varric around for something.” 

“Do you want one?” Maria asked, pulling another spear from inside the jar.

“Absolutely not. And when you make yourself ill, I want to hear nothing about it.” Dorian sniffed in aggravation, wincing in feigned distress as he finished reading the label on the bottle of wine bottle. “Really, I may as well just drink the juice in that jar for as appetizing as this wine you brought is. Was there nothing relatively close to decent in this hovel?” 

“No.” She lied in between bites. “I want you to drink because there’s a wonderful bottle of whiskey down there I can’t have.” 

“Alcoholism by proxy. Charming.” Without further ado, Dorian tapped the neck of the bottle and the cork popped out. An interesting twist on magic serving man, surely. “And which sorrow of yours am I drowning, Cadash?” 

She waited until he took his first experimental sip. She liked to watch the conflicting emotions play out over his face, a surge of triumph at being correct about how awful it would taste, then the actual resignation at having to finish it. “Is this vintage from the Anderfels? Maker, I’ve never tasted anything as atrocious in my life. I think we should declare war.” 

“Varric asked me to marry him.” 

Dorian nearly choked on his second swallow. Maria calmly bit into another pickle, wiped the juice off her chin before he managed to swallow the sour smelling wine. “Of course he did. And of  _ course _ you didn’t say yes. Why pass up the opportunity to wallow in perfectly good angst?” 

“I didn’t say no.” Maria huffed. 

“Well, yes, saying no would simply make it too easy.” Dorian grumbled. “So instead I’m to poison myself while you agonize? You’re a sadistic little creature.” 

“You love me.” 

“So does he.” Dorian remarked astutely. “So much so that I feared we’d have to keep him from flinging himself on your pyre when you died.” 

Maria couldn’t meet Dorian’s eyes, so she pretended an extreme amount of interest in the jar she held instead. “These are the best pickles I’ve ever had. Do you think they’ll give me some to take with us if I ask nicely?” 

“My dear, what is going through your pretty head? Surely when you figured out you were in the family way, it occurred to you he would want to make it official?” 

It had, in a dreamy not-real kind of way. But she’d had the Exalted Council to think about and the very excitement of waiting to tell him. “I was the Inquisitor then, Dorian. I could… I could have married someone like Varric despite what I was born and… people would have talked, but…” 

“That Merchant’s Guild of yours down here would never have liked it, no matter what.” Dorian waved his hand as if dismissing the whole thing. “Personally, I don’t think they’ll ever forgive you for showing them up. It took a woman they ostracized to put the world back together? Hah! They’ll be eating humble pie about that for the next age, at least.” 

“Deshyrs don’t marry women like me, Dorian.” Maria admitted quietly. “Bad things happen when you try to shake the boat. Dwarves hold onto their traditions like a lifeline.” 

And the men like Varric, like Fynn, who tried to cut the cord…

Dorian snorted. “Thank Andraste Corypheus never figured out the dread Inquisitor was afraid of a bunch of Dwarven men hiding behind their paperwork. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would have been?” 

“I am not afraid of them.” She jabbed a pickle at him in protest and he made a noise of disgust as he was splattered in vinegar. 

“You heathen, don’t you dare lie to me.” Dorian snapped waspishly. 

“I am not.” 

“Maria!” Dorian exclaimed, then softened at the stricken look on her face. “Maria.” He repeated, taking a thoughtful drink and wrinkling his nose before putting the bottle back down.

“There isn’t any shame in being frightened of the things that scared you when you were a girl.” Dorian began slowly. “If I saw the blood mage my father hired to turn me into his model citizen, I do not know if I’d… I’d like to think I would fight them to the death on the street. But perhaps I would simply run away, hm? In fact, I still have horrid nightmares of my old dancing master chasing me with a ruler.” 

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. Dorian smiled at the sound, warm and soft. “My dearest, our favorite merchant prince has been leading the guild on a merry chase since far before he met you or me. I would hazard to say he’s far smarter than any of them and remember, charming enough to talk himself out of Cassandra murdering him multiple times. I know the thought of giving up control is enough to make you break out in a cold sweat, but perhaps we should let him handle the Merchant’s Guild? You can just… eat pickles and cause grave injury to my liver.” 

“Dorian, what if…” What if he changed his mind? What if she couldn’t save him? What if they tried to take her child away from her and give it to some proper guild woman who didn’t… 

“What if, just this once, you let someone protect you?” Dorian asked, resting his chin in his palm. “Perhaps a clever rogue with a heart of gold? An author with a devoted quill and a talented tongue?” 

“Women like me don’t become Viscountess.” The argument sounded weak to her own ears and Dorian scoffed before taking another drink.

“There is nobody else like you and I think, for that reason, you could do whatever you pleased.” 

 

The former Inquisitor would travel to Val Chevin in a mule cart. It was like her childhood all over again the second she saw the sweet, gentle creature munching hay out of Cole’s hand. She’d been delighted to explain to Dorian’s increasingly skeptical face that mules were the best creatures to carry lyrium out of the deep roads. They were placid, dedicated things that weren’t frightened of caves, giant spiders, or dwarves with drinking problems.

“No horses for sale, Sparkler.” Varric shrugged wickedly, watching as Dorian’s face grew horrified. “The mule is the best we can do unless you’re asking our Princess to walk the rest of the way while creating a little dwarf.” 

She thought for a brief second Dorian would demand she do so rather than suffer the indignity. Instead, he acted like he’d been martyred for blessed Andraste himself as he sank into the back of the cart with all the Tevinter grace he could muster. 

“Her name is Stella.” Cole smiled brightly. “She likes the fresh hay.” 

“We’ll get her lots, kid.” Varric promised. Maria stroked the mule’s velvet nose and cooed to it softly. 

“Can I drive?” Maria wanted to, she’d always liked driving the mule carts when she visited the mines. If she took her time, she should be able to manage the reins with one hand, surely. 

“Honestly, I was hoping you’d offer.” Varric laughed warmly, voice sweet as honey. “I’ve never  _ actually _ driven one. I would rather put myself in your capable hands.” 

“I’m sure you would, but I would like to get away from this horrid rustic idyll and back to civilization. Which has carriages, and horses.” Dorian muttered sourly. “Maker… are there  _ jars _ of pickles back here? Fasta vass…” 

“She likes them.” Cole’s head jerked up in defense. “They’re for our baby. She said they’re the best ones she ever had.” 

Maria couldn’t help but laugh even as her heart swelled.  _ Our  _ baby. “Cole, please tell me you didn’t steal them.” 

“He did.” Varric’s eyes sparkled with good humor. “But I made sure we paid for them. The lady of the house was more than happy to provide them to an expectant mother along with sundry other items I was assured you’d probably want.”  

“I was helping.” Cole protested and Maria stood on tip-toes to kiss his sun-warmed cheek. 

“I know, sweetheart.” Maria winked and patted his arm. “Get up in the back and let’s see if I can remember how to do this.” 

“Lovely.” Dorian complained snarkily from the back. “Did you bring any of that horrid wine, Cole? I suspect I shall need it.” 

Varric winked and offered his arm to help her climb into the cart. She let her fingers trace over silk covered muscle as she clambered up, stopping at the sight of bright blue marguerites tied with a pretty piece of silk ribbon on the bench. 

Something in her throat tightened even as Varric climbed up behind her. Mutely, she bent to pick up the little bouquet, unable to prevent the wide smile from breaking over her face. She settled on the bench and met Varric’s eyes as she dropped them into her lap. 

“Marguerite.” He couldn’t hide his smile either. “Bit Orlesian, but not bad overall. Lends itself to lots of nicknames and I like to have options.” 

“I do like that you’ve both settled on Dorian if it’s a boy.” The mage laughed in the back of the cart. “No discussion even required!” 

“Bull, actually.” Varric stated evenly. “We already talked to him about it.” 

He settled in beside her while she grabbed the reins and Dorian sputtered, one arm thrown around her shoulder and his grinning mouth pressing a kiss to the corner of hers. “After you, Princess.” 


	34. An Indecent Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get out." Varric ordered, kicking away from the desk. "And if anyone else has any bright ideas about messing with my family, I'd share this with them."
> 
> Varric protects his family, just like he always has.

_I will never be the first_   
_of so many things for you._  
_I came too late,_   
_after life and love were woven_   
_into the tapestry of your existence._   
_I care not about lost firsts,_   
_but I will fight, knuckles bloody_   
_and teeth sharpened, for your lasts._   
_Take the old firsts and put them to rest,_   
_silent below the dirt and ash_   
_of all the new ones we will burn through._   
_Take them, but give me the lasts._ _  
_ **_-Tyler Knott Gregson-_ **

 

The fault, Varric later decided, was with her hair. That bright, beautiful fall of red that tickled her collar bones when she left it loose. Nobody could miss that hair in a crowd, it stood out like a beacon. She typically wore it knotted at her neck, braided off to one side, out of her way while she worked. But Varric, besotted idiot that he was, kept undoing her pins and ties while she drove the cart so he could run his calloused fingers through her silken strands. Eventually, laughingly, she just gave in and left her hair down.

It was a long, uneventful trip to Val Foret. Varric should have known better than to expect it to continue. Maria smiled more, the sun and the fresh air cleaning out her head far better than the three of them could. She even seemed to figure out a way to beat the nausea, eating small bites just about constantly and never actually trying to eat a full meal. It was working, even though he hesitated to tell her that the curve of her stomach had begun to show when she undressed, a teasing glimpse of their child growing inside her. 

And he couldn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t stop playing with the strands of candy-apple red hair around her face, couldn’t quit tucking blue flowers behind her ear. Could hardly repress the urge to ask her again, and again and again, to be his wife. 

That damn hair was what drew the mercenaries towards them, he was sure of it. Maria, in profile, hardly looked like she was missing an arm, not from the side they approached. Cole sliced one of the apples into chunks and Maria allowed the mule to mouth them off her open palm, her sultry voice whispering endearments to the daft animal. 

Varric and Dorian both noticed the approaching band first, straightening from the remains of their sandwiches. They were coming from Val Royeaux, easily a day and a half’s journey ahead of them in the cart.

“Why, how very friendly they look.” Dorian remarked with narrowed eyes. “Do you think they need directions back to Val Foret?”

“Somehow, I think they know where they’re going.” Varric mumbled warily. “Princess, Kid. We’re about to get company.” 

Maria looked over her shoulder, frowned and turned her attention back to the animal. That frown told him all he needed to know, that she agreed it was just the sort of company they didn’t need. The kind that made Bianca very twitchy. 

Still, they could get lucky. 

They could. They probably wouldn’t, but it could happen. 

Dorian leaned casually on his staff and Varric readied himself to sling his crossbow over his shoulder. Maria shifted into a stance that would allow her to draw a blade in a heartbeat. But it was Cole who touched his heart the most, sliding from Maria’s right side, the side facing them, around to her left, between her and the approaching band. 

He was going to buy the kid a whole hat shop. 

The group slowed as they approached, eyes lingering on Maria’s red hair. She continued to stroke the velvet muzzle of the mule until the first one drew up on the reins of his horse, making him rear back. When all four hooves hit the ground again, he glared down at the top of Maria’s head. She slowly raised her eyes to him with a beguilingly innocent smile. “Can I help you?” 

“No.” Cole hissed in a low voice.

“Could be her.” A woman with dead looking eyes said. Too well armed to be bandits, Varric thought. And he was certainly not a fan of where this conversation was going. 

“You got a name, dwarf?” The man barked, jumping lightly from his horse. The rest of his men followed suit. 

Maria blinked only once before saying one word. “Bianca.” 

Varric knew a signal when he heard one. As if responding to her summons, Bianca was in his hand and a bolt was embedded in the leader’s forehead, dropping him backwards. The mule brayed in alarmed irritation, but Maria’s throwing knife had already embedded itself in the chest of the woman with dead eyes. Her second throw, unfortunately, didn’t spin quite right and bounced hard off the third person’s neck. 

Luckily, Dorian had already summoned a fireball large enough to scatter men and horses in all directions and Cole leapt into the fray with a dancer’s grace. Some of them thought better of continuing to fight and began to run. Varric shot a bolt in the back of one, but let the other two take off.

Dorian rushed into the fray, animating a corpse as he passed, but Varric reached forward just enough to drag Maria backwards. “Do me a favor and sit this one out?” 

“If you insist I’ll certainly try to.” She had a knife in her hand, her head jerked toward Dorian and Cole. “They’ve got two archers in the back.” 

He pressed a searing kiss to her lips before pulling away. 

 

As luck would have it, for perhaps the first time, things went their way. The mercenaries fell like one of Maria’s card towers with little assistance required from her beyond the blade that took out the second-in-command. All she had left to do was fuss over Cole nursing a small scratch on his upper arm. Cole glowed under her motherly attention, the way he usually did. 

Varric knelt beside the first mercenary, rolling him onto his front so he could pat him down. Dorian leaned over him, eyes wary when Varric pulled out a folded letter and shook it open with a relish. 

Within the first two lines, he was seeing red. Dorian began to swear above him, a litany of Teven spilling out through clenched teeth. 

 

_The former Inquisitor cost me more gold than she’s worth with the stunt she pulled at Halamshiral. I just finished buying up exorbitantly inflated contracts in Orlais, only to find out she wasn’t whoring herself out to them to begin with and it was all a distraction to let the sister slip._

_My bet is that she’ll try to meet up with the younger girl in Val Royeaux and smuggle themselves out. I did some investigating, but the woman barely has a sovereign to her own name. It’s all gone to the humans and their holy army. She’s got some small sums in different institutions throughout the Free Marches, but nothing large enough to compensate for the losses. I guess Tethras was bankrolling her before he left._

_I’d say she’s more trouble than she’s worth if the humans aren’t going to stick their necks out for her any longer. It’s embarrassing that all the surfacers were represented by a Carta rat in the first place. Of course, the Carta won’t attack her or the younger one, something about a purge of a family that took a contract out on one of ‘em ten years ago. Plus, they get all dewy eyed over Cadash like she’s a fuckin’ paragon._

_Any mercenaries you can find that take the job, I’ll pay them double._

 

“I honestly really hoped nobody would be that stupid.” Varric mumbled, the taste in his mouth gone sour. “How friendless do they possibly think she could be?” He shouldn’t have left her in Halamshiral. They wouldn’t have dared it if they knew he was still beside her. That he always would be. 

“It’s honestly a bit touching to think of the Carta having such a healthy respect for her.” Dorian shrugged. “Warms the heart.” 

“Qunari, Orlais, Guild, Solas, or Ferelden?” Maria’s shadow fell over him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Despite the carnage, she seemed lighthearted. “Do you remember when it used to just be Tevinter cultists and rogue templars who wanted me dead? Ah, the good old days.” 

“Well, the good news is that the Guild has to resort to hiring human mercenaries to take you down. The Carta won’t touch you or Bea with a ten-foot pole.” Varric tried to match her lighthearted tone as he straightened. 

“Honestly, that doesn’t surprise me. Nanna did a number on the last people a Deshyr hired to kill me.” 

And you’re still one of them, he thought with a surge of amusement. The Carta had its honor and its pride. Attacking the one shining example of a Carta girl made good? That would just be bad business. Allowing a deshyr to do it…

Well, he was sure the Carta didn’t like that at all, but they kept their mouths shut rather than risk stepping out of line for little chance of profit or reward. 

“Well, the better news is they haven’t figured out where Bea is if they’re still attacking me.” Maria claimed. “What’s the bad news?” 

He was sorely tempted not to tell her. He saw the same war on Dorian’s face when he turned around. And yet, if she found out somewhere else, from someone else, it’d just be worse. Better to wound cleanly and be done, at any rate. He curved both arms around her waist, brought her flush to his chest. “Before I tell you, I want to remind you that it’s fine. I’ve been around the block a few times, I thought this could possibly happen even if I really hoped it wouldn’t, and I’ve got a plan.” 

“That bad?” Maria joked weakly. “Maker, what is it?” 

“They weren’t looking for your sister.” Varric stated grimly. “Apparently House Haardal made some pretty unwise financial investments, decided leaning on you to get it back wasn’t worth it, and that you’d be better off dead to the entire guild.” 

Maria's face froze for a breathless second, color leaching out of her face in a rush. "There's a contract out on my life? _Again_?" 

The last word was laced with more anguish than he wanted to confront. Varric refused to budge from his stance, arms curled tight around her, even as she tried to push his broad chest away. Her fingers brushed the exposed skin near his heart and as if in answer, the organ thudded heavily in response. She had an effect,  she always had. From the very moment he'd seen her under the breach, he'd been her man through and through. 

"I'm going to take care of it." He kept his voice level, calm. "Try not to panic. It's not good for the baby."

"Do you know what else is decidedly not good for the baby?" She asked with a scowl, eyes burning into his. "One of us getting assassinated by the Merchant's Guild!" 

And under that fury, hidden so cunningly only the people who knew her best had a chance of spotting it, was a cold glimmer of fear. It made her hand clutch onto his shirt when she realized she couldn't push him away, knuckles gone pale with the effort. 

"Neither of us are going to get assassinated." Varric wished he had to reassure her about things regular people worried about. Whether or not a dress was flattering, if his parents liked her, that their baby wouldn't be a misshapen lump. He'd give his arm for just a taste of a normal day. "Give me two days in Val Royeaux and not only will I have this shit dealt with but I'll be well on my way to extricating your sister out from under the shadow of the noose." 

"It's like the beginning all over again." Cole remarked eerily. 

It was. Varric didn't know whose mind Cole was digging into, but dammit, Varric couldn't help but remember another woman pressed flush against his chest with fear dancing in her stunning eyes. And yet again, Varric knew they could make it if they just stuck to the damn plan. If Maria could just trust him like Bianca hadn't… If Maria didn't jump ship on him the second his back was turned. 

"Losing Fynn nearly broke me." 

Well, eventually, they were always going to have to sit down and actually talk about it, weren't they? Dorian backed away, hauling Cole with him with vague remarks about dealing with the kid's injured shoulder. Once they were safely at the rear of the cart Maria continued to talk, voice thick with tears. 

"When I got back to Ostwick I did nothing. For months, I sat in my room and waited to die. Food had no taste, sleep never came,  everything I used to love to do… I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't do it without him. And when I finally found little things worth leaving my room for, when I finally rejoined the living, the part of me that loved him never came back to life. It shriveled up and nobody could…" 

A silver tear dropped from her shining eyes, traced a path over her cheek when she lifted her hand from his shirt to his hair, tangling the strands in her fingers. "I let other people touch me. I tried to feel something for someone. But I couldn't… I didn't come alive again until I saw you in your… your ridiculous shirt on that blighted mountain top, _laughing_ at the way I fought with Cass and calling me Princess and the world was fucking ending and _you_ brought my heart back to life."

She barely paused for a breath, the words coming fast and furious, a storm breaking at long last. "If you die, it'll be a hundred times worse because I love you _more._ I love you so much I feel like my heart can't take it and yet somehow, still, I love you more the next day. If I lose you, I'll never come out of the abyss.”

“Maria…” 

“I need you, Varric.” The confession poured out of her and she tightened her grip on his hair, closing her eyes. “I can't be myself without you. I can't fight this war without you. I can't raise our baby without you. I can't live through the Guild murdering you like they murdered Fynn. I can't."

 _I need you_ . Varric tried to remember if she’d ever said those words like that. Sure, he’d heard them lots of times in her breathy little moans, seductive purrs, sultry invitations. But had Maria ever admitted to needing _anyone_ outside the bedroom? She’d certainly never said that she needed him like this, with tears in her eyes and desperate fear bubbling inside her voice. 

“Maria, listen to me.” He brought his forehead to hers, touching them lightly together. “I need you to believe I can fix this. I need you to trust me and follow my lead and I _swear_ I can handle the Guild. I can keep them away from you, from Bea, from our baby. I promise.” 

He’d kept the templars off Hawke for years. It cost him a small fortune, but Daisy continued to cut through wherever she pleased unmolested. Fenris _technically_ ended up owning the mansion he stole through a bunch of different aliases and shell companies. Varric protected his family, always could. 

The first time he and Bianca ran, they trusted someone they shouldn’t have, but Varric never made that mistake again. If Bianca would have listened to the plan the second time, if she would have just trusted him… 

Maria took a deep shuddering breath that rattled her whole body, fingers tensing in his hair before she let go, smoothing it gently. She nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. 

“Do you know who’s running the Carta in Val Royeaux?” Varric asked gently. “We’ll start there.” 

 

_Hawke -_

_I meant to send a letter sooner. Ruffles said she'd send a letter to you when Maria woke up, but I couldn't steal a second to do it myself._

_Maria said there was another letter that was sent too. She's being cagey about the details of said letter, which I'm sure means it probably made you want to get on a ship and storm Halamshiral. I hope Broody talked you out of it, if you up and left Kirkwall with a Qunari threat looming over the whole city, it would fall to pieces in an afternoon._

_I’m going to assume that first letter told you everything. I’m okay. She’s okay. There’s a lot I can’t write about, but we’re okay. I promise._

~~_She nearly burned alive and I’d never wished you were there more._ ~~

_I know you and Aveline have the gatlock situation under control. I’m sure finding it in your cellar must have made Broody light up like a drunk mage on Satinalia. I know you don’t need my help protecting your little men, but you’ve got it as always._

_With any luck, Hero already made it back or just about has. He was in a fit to get back to Spitfire and Bean. He’ll be able to tell you what happened up to us leaving Halamshiral. Make sure you ask him about the dread wolf, because that’s a twist nobody saw coming._

~~_I still can’t hate him. Not the whole way, at least. He saved her._ ~~

_Listen, shit got complicated with the Guild after we left Halamshiral (like we really needed things to be more complicated.) Kidnapping, attempted murder, a golem, you know, all the weird guild shit I hate putting up with. I’ve got to stop a few days here in Val Royeaux to nip it in the bud before I bring Maria home. You’ve still got authorization to stop all weird transactions on my accounts, so there’s a pretty large chance my solicitor is going to come knocking and ask if I’ve lost my damn mind because of the really bad business decisions I’m about to make. Don’t worry, it won’t come close to bankrupting me, we’ll still have plenty of coin to put Kirkwall back together. Just tell the man I know what I’m doing and send him on his way._

_I don’t think I’ll need to dip into any of the liquid portion of your assets, but if I do, I’m good for it. Promise._

~~_Why do we still keep so much of your assets liquid? Are we expecting we’re still going to need to smuggle you out past the templars or something?_ ~~

_Nevermind. I just realized there’s a high chance you’ll be on the run from someone or something  in the next year or two. Gotta love your particular brand of bad luck._

_I’m pretty sure Bran’s still wringing his hands in the inn I got kidnapped from. I’m writing him too and telling him to take his useless ass home. Sorry if he makes it back before I do, see if you can get Aveline to babysit him._

_I miss you, Waffles. We’ll have drinks when I get back. Tell your Fledgling I’ll be home soon with new stories for him. And remind Aveline I was damn serious about her needing to move her old equipment from those rooms in the keep. Anything left is going straight in the harbor._

_Forever your trusty dwarf,_

_Varric_

 

He didn’t realize it until Maria pointed it out, but they were staying at an inn just down the street from the inn they’d stayed at on their way back from Adamant. The one where Cassandra, bless her heart, locked him in a room and interrogated him on his intentions with the Inquisitor. It was the first night they spent together, innocent and chaste as they could be with him shirtless and her enticing body sleep warmed and soft next to him. Still, they’d simply slept together, their first night side by side. 

The beginning all over again.

Dorian got his own room, reluctantly allowing Varric to take the stately little suite with room for a tidy working area. It was still ridiculously ostentatious, Orlesians would really put gold leaf on anything, but it gave him space to work. Within moments, with the proper coin to the proper shady looking elves, he had the Kuhn Carta at his doorstep. He’d been right. They weren’t stupid enough to step in Guild bullshit without a good reason, but Varric had lots of shiny good reasons. Enough to get the attention of Luka Kuhn herself.

According to Maria, the woman was the grand dame of the Orlais criminal empire as much as Zarra Cadash had been in the Free Marches. Unfortunately, business hadn’t been great for the Carta in Val Royeaux in the aftermath of the mage rebellion, with the white spire empty. They’d taken on other businesses, gambling rackets mostly, and Luka had a lean, hungry look. 

And when he told her what he wanted, she only grinned with barely concealed malice. “Does this have anything to do with the hit out on Cadash?” 

Varric sensed it wasn’t in his best interest to lie, not this time. He shrugged nonchalantly, tapping the papers in front of him. “Possibly. And if it did?” 

“Well, business and pleasure mix so infrequently.” Luka smirked and shook her head. “I can break into the places you need. Get what you want. Give us till this evening and I’ll send my boys around. Roggar’s my eldest, he’ll be your contact.” 

Luka paused, thoughtful, scanning the room. Her eyes rested on alcove hiding the bed, curtain drawn to separate it from the rest of the suite. “I knew her by reputation, Tethras, before she became Inquisitor. I think my boys let her play too close to our territory, but you know how it is. A beautiful woman enters the game and all thoughts go out the window for every man in a ten foot radius. She seemed a decent sort, anyway. Wouldn’t have minded her bundling herself into one of my boy’s beds.” 

With that, the woman exited and shut the door tightly behind her. Within a second, Maria ripped the curtain open. “I hate this.” She bemoaned. 

“Better safe than sorry. I don’t think she’ll turn on us, but I’d rather her not know for sure you’re here.” He picked up the stack of papers, leafed through it quickly and efficiently, pulling out what he wanted and handing the rest to Maria. “I need to go to Guild hall and pull some contracts. I’m going to send this letter to Hawke, too. Unfortunately, I’ll need to go there at least one more time before we can head out, so take a chance to read through all of that so I can get it filed before we head to Val Chevin. And for the love of Andraste, if you decide to go somewhere take Cole and Dorian with you.” 

“What’s all this?” Maria frowned, tracing the sprawling writing over the pages. “Is this what you’ve been working on since Velun? Shit, I thought you were writing another book. These are… what, deeds? Transfer agreements?” 

“And contracts.” He supplied helpfully. “It’s not quite half of what I own, but it’s a solid start. Some of its too convoluted to remember even with my excellent memory, and some stuff Hawke and I own together, so I’ve got to get her signature if I want to transfer any of it to you. Businesses, a shipping company, some mining expeditions…” 

She almost threw the papers back at him, color rising in her face. “I don’t want your money.” 

“I’m aware, Princess.” He chuckled despite her fury, gathering them all back up neatly. “But I won’t mind the extra security for you and our Sunshine. Plus, it’ll give you some clout to go with that guild seat you don’t want, makes it harder for anyone to try and do this again.” 

He ignored the thundercloud settling on her face, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Humor me.” 

“I’m not… I’m not going to blighted guild meetings, Varric!” She protested. 

“Sweetheart, _I_ don’t even go.” 

In spite of herself, she laughed, letting her eyes drift to the papers in her hand. “Varric, even if I married you, I wouldn’t get half your stuff. That’s not how it _works_.” 

Usually, a woman was lucky if she got to keep what she brought in. Nobody would expect a man to divide up anything more than a third of his estate if he was generous, and that only passing to the widow on his death. “Well, the way it works is shit.” 

Maria’s sigh said her agreement more clearly than a hundred words could.

 

Everything fell into place like a well-dealt hand of Wicked Grace. The hardest part, it turned out, was collecting Hardaal himself. As if he’d sensed impending disaster the same way small, frightened animals ran from an earthquake, he’d already tried to go to ground by their second day in Val Royeaux. 

But Roggar came through, the brutish man nearly throwing the luckless merchant into the suite mere moments after Varric received the word that they were on their way. He'd hardly had enough time to banish Dorian and Cole while Maria hid herself back behind the curtain with her blade ready. "Need me to hang around, Deshyr?" Roggar asked, staring down at the man on the ground with thinly veiled distaste. 

"Go downstairs and have a drink on my tab. I think Hardaal will need an escort out when we're done chatting." Roggar nodded, marching out and slamming the door shut behind him. Varric settled himself behind the desk and leaned back in the chair, propping his legs on the surface. 

"Tethras." The dwarf getting off the floor was older, harder. Gray hair featured prominently in a dark beard braided with elaborate care. His outfit hung off him like it was cheaply made, despite the fine material. "To what do I owe the displeasure? Aren't you happy enough lordin' it over the Free Marches?"

"I was in the neighborhood and decided to check in on what's been going on in the asscrack of Orlais. Turns out you've made some unwise investments, Hardaal." 

"Bad information." The man grunted. "Suspect you're to blame for that. Heard you were more slippery than a greased nug."

"Don't blame us. If you did an ounce of research you wouldn't be in this position." Varric unfolded a letter casually in front of him. 

"That what you were doin' putting your broken nose into my business at the Guild? Research?" The other dwarf's voice dripped contempt. 

Varric grinned and pushed the letter across the desk. "I'll show you what some research and brains can do. Take a look."

Varric knew that to raise the capital quickly enough to make those deals, Hardaal needed a loan. If his credit was good enough, he could have gotten it through the Guild. That would have been more difficult to handle, although still doable. Luckily, Hardaal's debt was held by a loan shark in the Val Royeaux slums, one handily known to the Kuhn family. Varric had been able to negotiate the price of the debt down before snapping it up, luckily the loan shark wasn't an idiot and knew taking the upfront payment Varric offered was the safer bet. 

For good measure, Varric even bought out some suppliers and contracts for Hardaal's most lucrative lyrium mine. Not the wisest business decision and not nearly his normal rackets, but…

Watching Hardaal's face fall as he read the letter detailing just how much Varric owned his ass was just about worth it. And Maria knew _a lot_ about lyrium mining, maybe she could end up doing something with it. 

"Bleedin'... what do you want, Tethras? The Cadash girl can't be worth all this." Hardaal jerked his collar open, sweat pouring down his neck. 

"Lady Cadash." Varric corrected. "She's a comtesse in Kirkwall, still. Or you could say Mistress Cadash since she's got a guild seat too." 

"She's just a woman." The man growled, letter crumpled in his hand. "They're a dime a dozen." 

"See, that's the kind of statement that let's me know you've never even touched close to a dozen women." Varric pulled Bianca from her place on the desk and settled her in his lap, a visible warning. "Maria Cadash is off limits. If anyone from the guild tries their shit, they're going to be introduced to a rather pointy side of Bianca. If I need to make an example of someone to prove it… well, that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make." 

Hardaal narrowed his greedy little eyes before nodding tersely. "I'll cancel the contracts on her life. You give me that note of sale for my debts."

"You'll cancel the contracts on her life. Then you're going to pick a name on Beatrix Cadash's list and say you know they ran away, that you saw them alive somewhere. You're going to push hard for them dropping this whole investigation into it."

"You have got to be shittin…"

"Furthermore." Varric continued over his objections. "I'm going to keep this note and I'll reconsider whether I want repaid in a year or so. If you behave well, we might work out a repayment plan. If not, we just seize your assets."

Hardaal was glaring, but Varric simply grinned. "You've got a vineyard in Antiva, right? I believe Lady Cadash always wanted one." 

Checkmate. 

As if sensing defeat, Hardaal sat down hard in the other chair and extended his hand. "Give me a quill so I can write these blasted letters."

Varric let him write in silence, watching the shadows under the bedroom curtain move. When Hardaal signed and sealed all three, he stood again. "Should I assume the thug downstairs is to escort me as I deliver these?" 

"Now you're thinking." Varric's voice rang with approval. "If we find out you skipped one from Roggar… well, the consequences aren't going to be pretty." 

"Anything else I can do for the Viscount?" Hardaal's lip pulled up in a sneer and Varric inclined his head to the curtained alcove. "Love, anything else you want from this nugbrained idiot before I set him loose?" 

The curtain twitched open just enough for Maria to reveal herself in all her splendor, beautiful and fierce as she stared down the man who at least had the decency to look mildly ashamed facing his intended victim. "I think you've covered it." Maria wrinkled her nose in disgust as she stared at the sniveling, greedy sod in front of them.

"Get out." Varric ordered, kicking away from the desk. "And if anyone else has any bright ideas about messing with my family, I'd share this with them."

Hardaal couldn't run out fast enough, leaving Varric to put Bianca on the desk. Maria didn’t move from her spot at the edge of the alcove, looking at him intensely. “Your family.” She repeated quietly. “I like the way you say that.” 

Dorian opened the door before Varric could respond, obnoxiously cheerful. “I heard the pitter patter of dwarven feet running as fast as they could. We’re all settled then? I’ve got news the Bull’s Chargers headed out three days ago, with luck, we may just catch them!” 

“I’ll need to settle some things payment wise tomorrow, but we can get a start in the afternoon. We may even get lucky and find a ship going to Val Chevin, it’d be quicker than the highway.” Maria was standing too still, frozen in her spot with her eyes ignited. Dorian followed Varric’s gaze, smiling softly as he landed on Maria’s figure. “See, my dear. All’s well that ends well as you southerners say.” 

“Dorian.” Maria’s lips moved up into a tiny, secret smile. “Go away and lock the door.” 

“As you wish.” Dorian sighed, pained, but Varric didn’t miss the wink he threw in the room before clicking the door shut. 

As soon as it shut, Maria was in his arms, her arm around his neck, lips demanding against his. He laughed against her warm, eager mouth as they stumbled into the alcove. For a one handed woman, her fingers were everywhere. She tugged his shirt, his belt, threw both things free before he was able to coax her own loose blouse over her head, careful of the breasts barely contained by the thin fabric. 

Then she pushed him back on the bed and he fell willingly, breeches quickly becoming uncomfortable as she straddled his hips. She was nearly bare from the waist up, contained only by the bodice fastened tightly around her bust. It did little to conceal her growing breasts and nothing to hide the rounded line of her stomach where their child grew. Her hand splayed out on his chest, as if to keep her balance, but she traced smoothly over his chest hair, lingering only a second, before resting her palm over his thudding heart. 

He tore his eyes away from her bustline to her face, both serious and tender. She was smiling _his_ smile, the one that only lifted the corner of her mouth. Her eyes sparkled with unfathomed emotions. Longing, love, desperation. 

“Yes.” She said softly. “Varric, yes.” 

It didn’t help that his blood was painfully engorging his cock and he was fairly certain he needed that blood elsewhere, because at first he didn’t understand, even as he eyes glowed with love for him, even as she pressed more firmly against his heart.

“I thought I said you’d have to ask. Properly. Bended knee and everything.” His mouth, damn him, could keep going no matter what. Maria’s smile didn’t falter, but she shifted experimentally and damnit, there went any hope of redistributing that blood to much more urgently needed places. 

“Alright then.” She whispered. “Marry me?” 

He supposed her knees _were_ bent. In a fashion. An improper, salacious, distracting fashion but who was he to judge? 

He traced his hands up her side until he could cup her cheek. She turned to nuzzle gently into his palm, eyes still on his. Everything, she was everything to him. The last woman he’d ever love. 

“Yes.” It was the easiest thing in the world, the word a sigh of relief. “Yes. But I’m not taking your last name, I’m a strong independent man and I…” 

She was laughing, delight and joy spinning from her mouth, lips claiming his in celebration before she rocked back with a grin that was more reckless and young than he’d ever seen on her face. “I’m not taking yours either.” 

“It’s not how it’s done.” He teased, pulling her back to his lips. 

“It’s how we’re going to do it.” She purred. “I’ve got a plan.” 

"Do you now?" He teased as if wouldn't follow her helplessly. He always did. “And that is…?” 

She traced her fingers through his chest hair, down over the hard planes of his chest to his abdomen, grinning like a cat who ate the canary. “Me. You.” She giggled and leaned down to brush another kiss against his lips. “And an utterly scandalized chantry mother who can’t in good conscience let the Herald of Andraste give birth to the Viscount of Kirkwall’s bastard.” 

Varric's laugh was swallowed by the deliriously warm heat of her mouth and her sly, enchanting smile. 

"I'm in." He muttered breathlessly against her lips. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." She echoed.


	35. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do I look?” Maria asked Cole, turning so the fabric fluttered like leaves on a tree, like waves lapping the shore. 
> 
> “The most beautiful, complicated thing he’s ever seen. Tangled mess of silky strings. All he wants is to sit down and untie your knots.” Cole smiled. “I think you look like the sun rising.”

Josephine Montiliyet was a treasure and needed to be protected at all costs. Who else, Maria thought wryly, would have stashed an assortment of dresses in the grand cathedral all tailored to her just in case the Inquisitor happened to need one and hadn't had it packed? According to Dorian, Maria had stashes of dresses in cities all over Thedas unbeknownst to her. All made to her measurements, all set aside for her use. It was absolutely ridiculous, she'd been forced into more gowns over the past two years than she'd worn in her entire life. 

The only problem, a small one really, seemed to be nobody ever assumed her measurements would change substantially. Three of the five gowns had to be set aside for decency's sake. It would be crass to show up to her own wedding with her tits just about falling out from her neckline. Luckily, the two that were left hadn't had sleeves they had to deal with.

And if the blue dress happened to be cut in diaphanous layers of floating chiffon, cut loosely as if Josephine always expected someday the Herald of Andraste would need to hide a body quickly changing, well thank the Maker somebody had been prepared for it. Josephine deserved a gold star.  

She ended up picking the blue one mostly because it matched the necklace she found on her pillow in the morning when she woke up. Hanging from a golden chain, a shining gold oval emblazoned with a spray of marguerites in precious sapphires and opals. On the back, the part pressed against her skin when she wore it, her initials intertwined with his. It was fabulously Orlesian and she wanted to hate it, but instead she adored it instantly. 

A wedding present, Varric whispered into her ear while he clasped it around her neck and let it settle against her skin. He said he bought it in the market on the way to the guild the day before because he knew she’d say yes, eventually. 

Maria traced the necklace laying above her cleavage with her eyes, but couldn’t help her eyes wandering in the mirror to the shoulders left bare by the wispy lace cap sleeves hanging off them. The small scraps of fabric holding the dress up did nothing to hide the harsh scars left by the anchor, bright white against her pale, freckled skin. They started at her collarbone and traced, as elegant as Fenris’s lyrium, down the skin of her mangled arm until it ended abruptly before where her elbow had been.

It made her sick to look at, but she forced herself to trace the scars as thoroughly as she traced the sapphires on her new favorite necklace. She wondered if this was how Fenris felt, staring at his body, both appalled and unable to look away. Perhaps she too would always feel this way, as if her body was ruined and wrecked by magic untameable and vicious. 

Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she wondered if she’d sold  the lyrium that ended up embedded in Fenris’s skin. It was a question nobody else ever asked, but Fynn would have. She tried damn hard after the debacle in the tunnels to keep her supply out of Tevinter, but she couldn’t guarantee it. Maybe this was her penance for it, matching magical scars with Fenris. If that was true, could she really complain?

Yes, she thought furiously, because at least Fenris could still swing his greatsword around. What was she supposed to do, fight an Elven god with cleverness and charm? How would she protect her family? 

“My lady Herald?” There was a young woman with hands in Maria’s hair, peered down at her in the glass Maria sat in front of. “I believe I’m done, if you would like to see it, I can find a hand mirror.”

“I have a…” She reached onto the little table and grasped the compact Bea left her, the signal to prove she hadn’t left her. Maker, she couldn’t believe Bea  _ kept _ it all this time, the mirror she stole from Lorcan Dunhark’s shop the day they met Fynn, the one with the phoenix swirling into the polished gold. She handed it up over her shoulder and the woman bent down, opening it and moving so Maria could examine the elaborate braids studded with blue marguerites picked fresh by Cole. 

It turned out, eloping in Val Royeaux was insanely easy. She turned up at the Grand Cathedral while Varric finished up tying the knots keeping the Guild from slicing her neck open or hanging her sister. She simply smiled and asked for the most senior cleric available, hoping against hope she didn’t get someone she  _ hated _ . 

Perhaps it was fate that Mother Giselle stepped out, smile warm and kind, telling her that Divine Victoria stated the Chantry was to help the Herald of Andraste however she asked if she turned up, that Giselle was holding down Val Royeaux while Leliana negotiated the end of the Exalted Council. 

Maker bless Leliana. Maker bless Giselle. 

The revered mother didn’t even blink at her confession, she simply beamed and directed her to the gowns that had been waiting for her. As if it was fate, as if she’d always been meant to end up here, in the grand Cathedral at Val Royeaux, in the Divine’s dressing room, getting married in the bleedin’ Divine’s private chapel to a merchant prince. It was a long damn way for Maria Cadash to come. 

“It looks lovely.” Maria tipped her head to the side, smiling. “Thank you.”

“You actually very nearly look like a proper lady.” Dorian swirled his glass of wine thoughtfully. “If only we could part you from those boots and that dagger.” 

“Corypheus himself couldn’t, but you’re more than welcome to try.” She muttered pointedly, adjusting the blade on the worn leather belt she insisted on wearing tied around the gown’s waist. She tucked the compact back into the pouch and let her fingers trail over the ivory handle with her swirling initials anxiously.

“Well, it’s tradition at any rate.” Dorian sighed in resignation. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” 

At Maria’s blank look, Dorian just tutted, exasperated. “Honestly, you mean to tell me you southerners have no wedding superstitions?” 

Before Maria could retort, and she had a good zinger on the tip of his tongue about the state of many Tevinter marriages that would have made Dorian laugh so hard he risked spilling his wine, the door behind them opened. Cole stood, awkward and unsure, shifting from boot to boot and eyes downcast. “He’s waiting. You’re here, and you always come, and he believes in you, but he’s still scared. Old scars that only you soothe, a wound growing smaller every day. He’s ready.” 

“As your dearest friend, I should remind you that you are still free to change your mind. I’ll help you slip right out past all these clucking sisters.” Dorian waved his hand dismissively at the girl in the novice’s robes putting away all her pins. The girl glared back in return. 

“No you wouldn’t.” Maria laughed, standing up from the cushioned stool and smoothing the gown over the barely there bump in her abdomen. “You’d never let me back out now.” 

“You’re right, I’d beat you about the head and drag you out there kicking and screaming. That poor man has dealt with your prevaricating quite long enough.” Dorian folded his arms over his chest in mock sternness. “You’re going to marry the beardless dwarf, have a perfectly charming little cretin to terrorize both of you, and rule over Kirkwall like a fairy princess if it’s the last thing I do.” 

A fairy princess, like something out of Varric’s most implausible stories. A criminal from the lowest social rung in Ostwick rising up to lead a holy army, defeat a madman, marry a prince (even of the merchant variety.) Nanna always said not to rock the boat, but Maria hadn’t just rocked it. She fucking tipped it over, lit it on fire, and strolled away humming, engulfed in potential disaster. She should run away screaming, but Varric was waiting for her. She couldn’t let him down. 

“How do I look?” Maria asked Cole, turning so the fabric fluttered like leaves on a tree, like waves lapping the shore. 

“The most beautiful, complicated thing he’s ever seen. Tangled mess of silky strings. All he wants is to sit down and untie your knots.” Cole smiled. “I think you look like the sun rising.” 

“You’ll do.” Dorian grinned cheekily. “Now come on.” 

 

She was glad, really, that it wasn’t some huge thing. If they’d have done it properly, in Kirkwall or Skyhold, there’d be hundreds of people. It felt better, walking into the small chapel with Andraste holding her sword standing no taller than Mother Giselle herself. It reminded her of the little chapel in Skyhold, off the garden, the one they’d sat in the night before she sealed the breach the last time. 

She told him then she couldn’t see the path and that she was frightened there was only abyss ahead of her. But when she caught sight of Varric, the strong proud line of his back to her, shoulders relaxed and voice cheerful, she finally felt like the path was clear. 

Varric turned from Giselle as soon as the door opened, caught in the beams from the windows up above them that turned his hair to sunlight. He was grinning so hard, so brightly, that she wouldn’t be surprised if his face hurt. He reached out his hand immediately and she crossed the small room in steps that made the dress swirl around her, taking his hand with her remaining one. He wore an Inquisition uniform, the red coat with gold trim and the bright blue sash scavenged from somewhere, maybe Josephine had a cache of those hidden in the city too. 

It wasn’t perfect. Other people should have been there besides Cole and Dorian. Hawke, for Varric, Cassandra and Beatrix. All of her friends, all of his. As if reading her thoughts in her eyes, Varric’s smile softened. “They’ll understand.”

“Cassandra will never forgive us.” She whispered softly. “She  _ desperately _ wanted to be here for this.” 

“Somehow, it’ll be my fault. I’m used to it.” Varric brought her knuckles to his warm, soft lips. “I’m a lucky man, you know.” 

She was the lucky one. She blinked away the tears that rose unbidden to her eyes. “I just want you to know, it all feels like it was worth fighting for.” 

“I know.” Varric squeezed her fingers. “The best thing that ever happened to me was getting dragged out of Kirkwall by the Seeker, but sweet Andraste, don’t tell her.” 

“Our little secret, then?” She asked softly. Varric chuckled over her hand and met her eyes with his, warm amber awash with happiness, with triumph. Underneath all of it, the same thing she’d been seeing for years in Varric’s eyes. Love, pure and simple, good and whole. 

“I am ready when you are.” Giselle interrupted gently. 

“Last chance, Varric.” Maria warned. “The door’s back there if you want out.” 

“Never.” He whispered, turning to face Giselle. “On with the show.” 

She’d never been to a human marriage ceremony, so she honestly couldn’t say for certain she knew what was going on. Dwarven ceremonies were much more focused on revering dead ancestors than asking for the Maker’s blessing or Andraste’s guidance, but that wouldn’t have fit Varric of Maria at all. They’d seen enough dead, buried enough people, said goodbye to enough dreams. There wasn’t any place for their skeletons here, not with her fingers twined with Varric’s, not with the morning sun shining down on them from the windows or flowers twisted into her hair. This was a celebration of life, of joy. Of hope. 

“Maria, you’re supposed to repeat that bit.” Varric broke in, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

She giggled and Dorian scoffed from behind them. “Right, what bit?” She asked cluelessly, not even embarrassed that she’d been too focused on the way the earrings in his ear sparkled, the scar right across his nose. 

“The swearing to the Maker…” Varric prompted. “Honestly, I even buttoned up my shirt for this. Pay attention.” 

“I swear unto the Maker and the Holy Andraste to love this man the rest of my days.” She finished in a rush, fighting the blush rising to her face, the grin plastered onto her lips. “I love you.” 

Mother Giselle laughed, the sound like ripples in a pond. “And you, Master Tethras?” 

“I swear unto the Maker and the Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.” His voice, smooth and sure as whiskey, curled with laughter. “I love you, too.” 

“It’s right now.” Cole whispered, utterly satisfied. “Stones sing together, soft songs, old songs, new ones.” 

“I pronounce you husband and wife in the sight of the Maker and Andraste. Go in peace and may the Maker watch over you.” Giselle declared with a maternal smile. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, my lady.” 

She didn’t want congratulations, she wanted her husband. She tugged Varric forward by the blue sash impatiently, laughing against his lips as she kissed him until they were both dizzy and breathless, flushed to the roots of his blonde hair and her red crown of braids. “There’s a ship in the harbor with our name on it.” She mumbled against him. “Shall we go retrieve my wayward sister?” 

“Anything for my wife.” Varric promised. 

She believed him. 

 

Varric and Maria slipped out of the city with Cole and Dorian before Giselle posted the notice on the Chanter’s board, away on their ship to Val Chevin. The ravens went out immediately after, a flutry of feathers and wings, messages of hope and joy found in despair. 

But it was the people of Val Royeaux who celebrated first, lighting bonfires against the darkness. Casks of wine were broken open, ale poured from every barrel. People laughed, people sang, people sent up cheers to the Herald of Andraste, to the Viscount of Kirkwall. They called down blessings upon their heads, their house, their friends and family. Giselle watched it all from the grand cathedral, the best secret of the union shared only with one raven going to Halamshiral. 

And if one section of Val Royeaux was more silent than the others… well, it didn’t really matter. The Merchant’s Guild couldn’t do anything about the outpouring of celebration, in fact, it would be foolhardy to even attempt to censure the happy couple when they were awash in so much goodwill. 

Still, Luka Kuhn made sure she tore down one of the marriage announcements in the market and moved it to a prime spot right outside the Guild’s doors. It was a spiteful move, of course, but she so rarely got to mix business and pleasure. And if the Guild wouldn’t celebrate, that was fine, because the dwarves from the slums poured out in droves to join the crowd and raise a glass to their sister. 

 

Nobody could argue with the Divine’s seal. Not a king or empress, not the Merchant’s Guild or even the Antivan Crows. Leliana guarded it jealously for that very reason, keeping a tight rein on what went out with her seal on it. Which is why she did a double take when she saw it affixed to something  _ without _ her explicit permission, sending all her other papers flying in a temper while she grasped at that one. The fury dissipated as quickly as she saw  _ what  _ it was, read the little scroll Giselle affixed to it. 

She couldn’t run down the halls of Halamshiral, it would be beneath the Divine’s dignity. So she walked, briskly, past the Inquisition honor guard, into the hallway where their Inquisitor had been sleeping (nearly died, but saved at the last moment, Maker be praised), past another row of guards until she found the door she was looking for. She wrenched it open and  _ did _ allow herself to run down the steps, her hat falling abandoned on the stairs as she twisted her robes out of the way and laughed, girlish and delighted.

Cullen and Josie both looked up from the table, caught off guard by the sound of joy in their sorrow. There were lines on Josie’s face that hadn’t been there before this council, a defeat in Cullen’s eyes. It was hard, damn hard, to think of Maria Cadash the way she was the last time they saw her, defeated, deflated, hopeless. 

But she wasn’t. Not their Inquisitor, not their Herald. They should have known better. 

“It’s a miracle.” Leliana couldn’t help it. It was the red rose in Lothering, it was Chantal picking up the blade and slaying the archdemon, it was Maria Cadash stumbling, half-frozen, back into their arms after Haven. “A miracle, from the Maker.” 

“Leliana…” Josie  _ must _ have been shocked to use the wrong name, and it made Leliana giggle as she threw the declaration onto the table and unrolled the little scroll. “It is from Mother Giselle. She begs my forgiveness, but stated she thought I would not mind when I learned the details. Our Herald and Master Tethras were married in Val Royeaux, in a private ceremony, in respect to the Herald’s delicate condition.” 

“I’m sure the Inquisitor loved the loss of her arm being referred to as a delicate condition.” Cullen muttered darkly. But Josie, experienced player of the game she was, understood immediately. The clipboard she always held clambered to the floor as she covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide with surprise. “No! But…” 

“According to Mother Giselle…” Leliana continued, fixing Cullen with her most indulgent of smiles. “She felt it was prudent to marry the two of them  _ before _ her condition became obvious, my seal will put it beyond reproach in case anyone thinks to question the legitimacy.”  

“Her condition became obvious?” Cullen echoed with a perplexed scowl. “Maker’s breath, what does the fool woman…” 

“Cullen!” Josie exclaimed with a laugh. “Think! Why would they need a quick marriage?” 

“I can hardly imagine unless…” 

Cullen got it almost as soon as he started talking, his eyes going glassy like they did sometimes when he thought. Then his scarred lip curled up into an amazed, reverent smile even as he flushed red. “No… but she was injured so… really?” 

“Why should we be so shocked?” One more miracle. Leliana’s throat burned with suppressed tears. “We should know better by now...” 

She couldn’t finish, but she didn’t need to. In a fit of unrestrained joy, Cullen had his arms around both her and Josie, pulling them to him in a tangle of happy exclamations, tear filled eyes, devout prayers, and laughter. Sweet, delighted, laughter. 

 

The cacophony coming from the barracks sounded like someone had just toppled an entire rack of armor onto the floor. It made Aveline’s nose come up like a hound scenting blood, pushing her chair back from her desk briskly and crossing the room in a few long strides. She prowled past the soldiers milling in the hallway, pausing only long enough outside the dormitory to confirm her suspicions with the high pitched laughter and the hushed chuckles and giggles. She threw open the door and crossed her arms over her breastplate in stern disapproval. 

Elias Hawke, a guardsman’s helm on his head, tottered across the floor dragging a shield while the rest of the guards off duty tried, in vain, to clean up the spilled contents of the rack before Aveline appeared. 

“Guard captain!” Someone saluted, dropping a breast plate. Eli squealed, delighted, reaching pudgy hands towards her. 

“Lean!” He called out brightly. “Leanlean!” 

She tried to hide the softening of her features. “I thought I said when he woke up, he was to go right back up to his mother.” 

“Yes.” One of the recruits babbled nervously. “Er, yes. But, we… we thought he might go back to sleep?” 

They wanted to play with the Champion’s little boy, that’s what they wanted to do. But Aveline had  _ told _ Hawke that the barracks wasn’t a babysitting service, and it was enough of a concession to allow the boy to nap in the soldier’s bunks while she tried to sort through paperwork.

“We’ll take him up.” One of the guards hurried to offer. “C’mon little champ.” 

“I’ll take him.” Aveline bent down and gently pulled the helm from Eli’s head, revealing his mess of dark hair and his father’s green eyes, eyes that looked so much more innocent and joyful in Eli’s round face. “You ready to go find your mom, pup? I think she’s got a treat for you.” 

Aveline threw the helm to one of the guards and scooped up the squirming boy in one arm, careful of the sharp edges of her plate. “I a guard.” Eli declared as they began to walk up the steps. 

“When you’re a bit older, you certainly can be.” She wouldn’t mind that, if she was still guard captain. It’d be nice to watch Hawke’s boy wield a sword for the first time, to train him up proud and strong. It’d be an honor, really. 

Emerging into the crowded keep made Eli push his face into her neck, shy around crowds, more Fenris than Hawke in that respect. Around people he knew, the boy was incorrigible, but strangers made him huddle into the nearest person he knew. Hawke spent enough time in the barracks that the child knew  _ all  _ the guards, but the nobles craning to get a glimpse of him as Aveline toted him up to the Viscount’s office…

“Head up, pup.” Aveline advised cheerfully. “I won’t let them bother you.” 

With Varric and Bran gone, Hawke became unofficial Viscount much to her distress. As usual, Hawke handled it capably, but not without an excess of whining. Which meant Aveline wasn’t surprised to find the Viscount’s office door shut tight and the Mabari curled up outside it pretending to snooze, but in reality guarding At their approach, the beast raised her head and peered at them with a large doggy grin, rising up immediately to nudge at the tiny feet hanging down near Aveline’s waist. Eli giggled and Aveline grabbed the doorknob, shoving it open. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, you can’t just set the dog on guard whenever you’re sick of nobles, and your son is distracting…” 

She paused, taking in the scene in front of her at a glance. Hawke was at the Viscount’s desk, papers strewn everywhere in disorganized chaos and towering stacks, but her attention was on three letters in front of her. The first two came one right after the other, signed and sealed terribly officially, but written with an obviously shaking hand by the Inquisition’s ambassador. 

One telling them the Inquisitor would die. The other that she lived, but at a terrible cost. 

The third came nearly two weeks after, days after Thom Rainier trailed back into port with haunted eyes and hands that couldn’t seem to let go of either Varania or Sabina. It was written by handwriting so familiar, they all knew it like they knew their own. Bits of it scratched out, hard to read but decipherable with enough effort. Since it had arrived two days prior, Hawke kept reading it.  

And this is what Hawke shut the door to brood over. Three letters spelling out disaster, impending doom, a madman wanting to burn the world according to Rainier. One who, against all odds, saved Maria Cadash from the fire. 

But not without the loss of her arm, the one Aveline still remembered holding a bow when she got back onto the ship the last time she’d seen her. Not without the loss of Varric’s child, a dream hardly fathomable. Maria Cadash survived, barely, clung onto life with more stubbornness than sense. Aveline swallowed the bile in her throat at the thought of that woman, a nuisance on par with Isabela, brought to death’s door. She’d always seemed so… vibrant. A splash of color roaming Kirkwall with a bright laugh and reckless grin getting into everything, making an absolute mess, and…

Maker, she made Varric so happy. The thought of their loss… it cut at Aveline’s heart, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. 

Hawke wiped her eyes briskly at their approach, turned a watery smile up to them. “Eli! You’re just what I needed, pup.” 

“You crying?” Eli asked, holding out pudgy arms. Hawke stood, holding out her arms and whirling her son away from Aveline in a flurry of restless energy. 

“Crying over all this paperwork.” Hawke deflected with a sunny smile. “I can’t  _ wait _ until your Uncle Varric comes home. I’m going to go cross eyed soon reading all these letters.” 

“He’ll be fine, Hawke. He’ll be back here soon.” With a broken and battered woman, a heart all but shattered. “We’ll take care of them.” 

“I should have been there.” Hawke’s constant refrain since the second letter. “I could have… done something.” 

“Let’s get you out for a walk.” Hawke was no good to man or beast in this state of mind, Aveline knew that too well. “The letters will keep.” 

“Well, I won’t say no to shirking the duties I didn’t actually want.” Hawke claimed brightly. “Wanna go find your papa, Eli?” 

Fenris, at least, put his fury, fear, and pain to good use. After dumping the gatlock in the harbor, he set to work fortifying defenses where he could. Skills, Aveline assumed, he’d picked up in his time with Maria’s Inquisition. There’d been some… resistance to taking orders from an elf. Resistance handily squashed by both her and Hawke. Fenris would never forgive the qunari for targeting Hawke and Eli, Maker help them if they tried to attack Kirkwall. The elf may just destroy them all single handedly. 

Hawke’s long, clever fingers went to pick up the staff lying, forlornly, against the fireplace where Varric usually put Bianca on the mantle. Before she even had it, Aveline heard a familiar graveled voice from behind her. “Is it true?”

“Ah, I guess we won’t be finding papa.” Hawke drooped in disappointment at the loss of her excuse, gaze sweeping helplessly over the paperwork. “Hello Fenris.” 

“Papa!” Eli squealed, squirming away from Hawke. Before Aveline could even blink, Fenris swept into the office with green eyes burning, followed by Varania, Rainier, their little girl, all of them looking flushed and out of breath like they’d run from the docks. Hawke’s eyes took in all of them and she frowned. 

“Oh no, what’s happened now?” She nearly wailed, falling back into the chair. “I swear, I can’t take anymore bad ne…” 

“The sailors on the docks say the Viscount married the former Inquisitor, the Divine announced it.” Fenris interrupted, swinging Eli up onto his hip. “I had hoped you would have recieved news.” 

“ _ What _ ?” Hawke asked, mouth falling open. “Married? Varric  _ married _ Maria and we weren’t invited?” 

“Reyna!” Varania snapped impatiently. “Is it true?” 

“Blighted… all I do is get letters!” Hawke gestured impotently to the towering stack of correspondence. “I read one and get six more! I don’t know how Varric does it!” 

“You somehow  _ misplaced _ an announcement from the Divine without bothering to look at it?” Fenris asked, astonished. Hawke had the good sense to look abashed and Fenris rolled his eyes to the sky as if asking for patience. 

Aveline grabbed part of the stack, and within seconds they all had letters, ripping envelopes open, a frenzy of motion that made the little girl clinging to Rainier laugh as she ripped open her own letters with childish glee. 

“Got it!” Hawke yelled triumphantly, waving around something with a burning sun embossed into the seal. Eli and Sabina cheered as Hawke broke the seal, eyes skimming the spidery handwriting as quickly as she could. Slowly, unbelievably, a smile broke out over Hawke’s face. “Maker, they actually did it.” 

Rainier huffed out a laugh, one of the few Aveline had heard since he returned. “Well, she’s back to doing things her way then.” 

“But there’s nothing else here from Varric.” Fenris stated, throwing his handful of letters down. “I cannot help but feel as if though  _ something _ has changed.” 

Something had changed. Aveline swallowed hard against the sudden dread. She didn’t want the woman dead, but… “Maker have mercy, she’s the Viscountess now.” 

Peals of Hawke’s laughter, bright and clear, could be heard the whole way outside the keep. 

 

Bea Cadash, the so-called Magpie of Ostwick, got to Val Chevin, sent one letter, and promptly crawled into a bottle. To be fair, she should have sent one to the Carta too, let them know she was still kicking around and not swinging at the end of a rope, which supposedly meant she was still in charge despite her best efforts. 

It just didn’t seem important. Her cousins would figure it out, eventually. Or assume she died, and honestly, wouldn’t that just make things easier? Dead women didn’t have responsibilities, they didn’t have to balance accounts or mediate disputes. Dead women didn’t fuck up the way Bea Cadash kept doing. Dead women didn’t put the only people they loved into the fire to satisfy random whims. 

Four days later, Bea had a favorite spot in the tavern, a tab  _ Varric _ probably couldn’t afford to pay, and an itchy feeling between her shoulder blades that something had gone sideways. The same one she could rely on like the sun coming up or Maria cheating at cards. But before she’d made up her mind what to do about it, the ocean breezed into the stuffy, musty bar on two beautiful, strong legs and zeroed in on her like a hurricane. 

“You know, someday, you’re going to find a healthier way of coping than falling into the cheapest bottle of whiskey you can find.” Isabela picked up one of the empty bottles and examined it critically while tsking playfully. “This probably turned your liver to ooze, babydoll.” 

“Dwarven constitution. Real thing, promise.” Isabela smelled like salt, like ocean air, freedom in a bottle and it made her want to cry more than the cheap whiskey had. Instead, she pinched her nose hard enough to clear her head just enough to focus. “Bela…” 

“Come on, let’s see if that dwarven constitution can get you back to the ship.” 

“I’m supposed to meet them here.” If something hadn’t gone wrong, which it probably had while she sat there on her ass, twiddling her thumbs. 

“We’ll leave a note.”

“I probably can’t pay my tab.” 

Isabela sighed in defeat and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Of course you can’t. Stay here.” 

Even if she was capable of going anywhere, she’d been sapped of any will to do so. Not when Isabela was so tantalizingly close, real enough to touch, not some whiskey summoned daydream, but her pirate queen. 

She wasn’t quite sure how they got back to the Siren’s Revenge. She could probably thank Isabela, the woman was steady on even the stormiest seas. The captain’s cabin felt like home, maps sprawled on the large desk, hats in a jumble on top of a chest, a collection of various shiny items nicked by both her and Isabela from various passersby, the accounts Bea ignored until the last possible second littered with navigation instruments. “Come on, get out of all those clothes.” Bela’s deft fingers, calloused from rope and daggers, popped the first button on her shirt. 

“Putting me to work paying off that tab already?” The humor sounded flat to her own ears, but Isabela chuckled throatily, pushing Bea’s hair back and kissing her temple in a gesture too sweet to comment on. 

“I certainly  _ will _ be doing that.” Isabela promised. “But not tonight, babydoll, not if you’re not up for it.” 

Bea didn’t have the words to describe Bela’s calm, sure touch. All she had was poison in her veins, vengeance thrumming in her blood, dread in her stomach. She had images of a bloodstained bed, Maria burning alive from the inside out, the hollow defeated look in frightened eyes, the spectre of a noose, voices and visions from beyond the grave. 

It was too much to spill out, so she didn’t. She never did. She buried her face in Isabela’s ample chest, stroked practiced hands up the ties of the tunic. It was a familiar dance up tanned, salt flavored skin. She couldn’t put it into words, she couldn’t drown it in alcohol, but she could lose herself in Isabela. She knew she could. And Isabela, without another word, knew that was what was required. 

“Dammit Beatrix.” Isabela’s voice, ragged as the woman straddled her lap, rising above her like a goddess, nails scraping lightly against her scalp as Isabela tangled her fingers in her dark curls. “Do you know what a waste you’d be dead? You should have left Halamshiral before…” 

“I couldn’t leave her.” The ties to Isabela’s tunic dissolved under her fingers. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t. She’s my sister.”

I love her as much as I love you, Bea thought drunkenly while she peeled away Isabela’s tunic. Another thing she couldn’t say. Would never say. 

“You better be sorry.” Isabela huffed. “All noble and… infuriating. I warned you that…” 

She had, and yet Isabela’s voice, sultry and smokey, always rippled with pride talking about her golden Carta woman. The same way Bea could talk about her merciful pirate queen releasing slaves in droves. 

What a pair, she thought with a stab of affection as she pressed her lips to Isabela’s lips, heard the echo of the sea in the pounding of her woman’s heart. What a damn pair. 

 

She couldn’t say what woke her, exactly, in the early morning hours days after Isabela pulled her onto the ship. She blinked, blearily, at the sky outside the cabin windows. It was still more blue than pink, dawn still not quite arrived. Another day of waiting, nerves chewing her insides, trying to figure out if  _ this _ was the time Maria didn’t escape from the mess she waltzed into. 

Then, with a rolling wave of nausea, she realized the ship was moving, not just the gentle bobbing of the harbor, but sails unfurled, pushing into the Waking Sea. Bea couldn’t get herself up fast enough in her panic, but before she could start shouting, her fingers brushed a small metal circle on the pillow next to her. 

She knew it like she knew her own reflection, the swirling rubies and the design on the surface. It always reminded her of Maria, the color of her hair that day she followed her out of Lorcan Dunhark’s shop. It reminded her of those last innocent months in Ostwick, the time before she dove into the fire, when she was still more girl than woman, not yet a monster with bloodstained hands and a savage heart.

She threw her tunic on inside out, but she didn’t care,  _ she didn’t care _ . She was out of the cabin like a fireball, clattering onto the deck and scanning it in the barely-there dawn light. Her heart hammered in her throat and she took the steps to the upper deck as fast as her short legs could. Isabela was draped over the helm, a sleep mused siren listening attentively as Varric Tethras himself told a story with his back to her. Isabela winked over his shoulder, inclined her head to her left. 

At the rear of the ship, watching Val Chevin fade into the distance, her sister stood with red hair loose like a flag. Her one sleeve was rolled up, revealing the great expanse of nothing where her arm had been, the remaining limb leaning on the railing. 

Maria’s name was a shout, a prayer. Maria turned at the sound, smiling serenely back at her as if she knew a secret that Beatrix hadn’t yet figured out. “You always could sleep through just about anything.” 

She was there, and better than she had been. Not the sick, dying woman in the bed throwing books at her (Bea should have come sooner, should have written, should have…) Not the broken, feral creature in the dungeons (Bea did it for her, for the boy who loved her once.) No, this was the woman Bea  _ knew  _ best, strong and proud and… alive. Vivid, vibrantly  _ alive _ .  

“Oh  _ fuck _ you.” The curse was half laugh, half sob, and then she fell into Maria’s embrace like she was a child again, wrapping both her arms around her neck (circled now by an unfamiliar necklace that was  _ ridiculously _ Orlesian), burying her face in Maria’s steady shoulders. 

Maria laughed, tucked a frazzled curl sleep flattened curl away from Bea’s face. “I’ve got a confession.” She started, tone playful and teasing. “I’m on the run with a deshyr. Again.”  

Everything in circles, never starting, never ending. It was almost comforting. “Well, luckily for you.” She began, voice muffled in Maria’s shoulder. “I’m the person to see about these situations now.” 

“I married him.” Maria continued, stroking Bea’s hair just the way she had when they were girls. Bea laughed, a strangled sound that didn’t even begin to contain her joy. 

“Course you did. Nanna’s  _ rolling _ in her grave between the two of us.” Well, she supposed Varric was safe from her blades after all. And Nanna  _ had _ liked him, just a bit. She’d even said Varric was handsome, once, and it was obvious the man adored Maria, had from the very beginning.

“I’m having his baby.” 

She pulled back, convinced she’d misheard, but Maria was grinning, tears in her eyes. Bea wheeled around just long enough to see Varric’s face was wearing an identical grin, one so full of hope and delight it made Bea’s knees go weak. 

The world took everything from her sister. Fynn Dunhark, the position of respect she’d earned in the Carta, her normal life, her grandmother, her health, her arm, all lost to Maria’s meteoric rise. It had seemed like fate that it would snatch away the baby she carried. 

But it didn’t. Just this once, for a woman who’d always been the best woman Bea knew, the world relented in its cruelty.

“We’re going to call her Marguerite.” Maria continued softly. “But I think I’ll call her Magpie.” 

Bea couldn’t contain the tears of joy. Her niece, she thought dazed as she sobbed into Maria’s shoulder. 

The Magpie of Kirkwall. 


	36. Seekers and Hawks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t lose everything, Cass.” Maria whispered as if she had read Cassandra’s mind. “Not the most important things, anyway.” 
> 
> The Maker placed her at Haven, sheltered her from the avalanche, carried her through the Fade, stood beside her when she faced Corypheus. How could Cassandra think that he would abandon Maria Cadash at her most dire?

Beatrix’s confession came like a tidal wave, like a dam breaking and flooding a town below. She sat, legs crossed and childlike, in Isabela’s bed while she talked. She never looked up, staring down at her hands instead as if she could see blood on them. As if she’d never stopped seeing blood on them. 

Maria, of course, couldn’t sit still. She started perched on a chair, but moved a dozen times until she finally stood at the window and looked out over the open ocean retreating behind them. Bea’s voice faded out on one last final explanation, how she’d turned her smuggling ring from lyrium to people. 

Of course, the profit was still in the lyrium which meant she’d never quite be able to stop selling the rock all over Thedas, but Bea’s heart was in the people. Not just nobles and guild members, although that’s what Bea would always be infamous for, but normal people wanting to be free of a variety of ills. Bea moved them at no cost, settled them in places she knew well. Zarra Cadash had prepared her girls for a life in every port, and Bea knew just enough to steer clear of trouble about damn near everywhere. 

Maria’s eyes were soft while she took in her sister and all of Bea’s secrets, her lips set in a small, concerned frown. Bea finally dared to look up through her lashes, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m waiting for you to start yelling.” She admitted. 

“You’ll be waiting awhile.” Maria crossed the room, sank onto Isabela’s bed next to Bea. “Blighted hell, Bea, how long were you planning on carrying all this?” 

Dead people’s secrets, Fynn Dunhark’s last angry letter. His father’s sinister plot for revenge. Zarra Cadash’s frantic attempts to save her two girls from the implosion of a doomed love affair. Bea shrugged carelessly. “Rest of my life, I guess. I never really stopped to think about it until… Maria I saw him. I  _ heard _ him. You did too and I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to die not knowing, but it didn’t seem like the right time.” 

“We’ll work on your sense of appropriate timing, Mittens.” Varric teased fondly. “It’ll get better.” 

It probably wouldn’t. Both Cadash sisters were walking disasters. Between Maria’s wildly careening luck (divinely terrible one moment, divinely amazing the next) and Bea’s propensity for impulsive and reckless decisions driven by a good heart and clear, burning sense of injustice…Varric would be dragging both of them out of trouble until he went gray, it was better just to accept it and move on. 

Maria closed her eyes, as if trying to recall something clearly. “I was supposed to tell you… Fynn was sorry that you had to clean up his mess. You were just a kid, Bea. You shouldn’t have needed to take care of us. It wasn’t your damn job.”

“Do you really think it was them? Nanna and Fynn?” Bea asked while she twisted the edge of her sleeve nervously. “Not just… a trick, or a demon?” 

“That’s a scary question, Bea.” Maria leaned back on her one arm, kicked her feet out and stared at her boots. “If we believe they were real, we have to believe in what happened when they said goodbye.” 

“Which was?” Varric asked, spinning one of Isabela’s daggers in his fingers. Maria sat up straighter, tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and looked back out the window as if she’d find an answer there. 

“If they were real, then I’m supposed to stop Solas from destroying the world.” Maria frowned, eyes tugged back down to her missing arm. “With no army, no plan, and no arm.” 

Always back to the real question, the one nobody could quite answer. Was Maria Cadash sent by the Maker, or wasn’t she? People had been asking it since she fell out of the breach 

“It doesn’t matter, Princess.” It didn’t matter because she was going to stop Solas regardless or die trying. There wasn’t any choice for her, not anymore, not with their baby’s future on the line. “We’ll stop him. You’re not alone in this, you’ve still got your people.” 

“And us.” Bea offered with a determined frown.

“You need to go to Rivain.” Maria stated firmly, her brow wrinkling. “After you go make sure Dwyka didn’t snatch up the reins of your whole operation while you were on the run.” 

“Dwyka is too stupid to take such a prime chance.” Bea hid the nervous flick of her eyes with a leisurely stretch. “I think Rivain can wait.” 

“This isn’t the kind of news she should get in a letter, Bea.” Maria dropped her voice into a quiet admonishment. “She was her mother.” 

Rivain. Bianca. Varric raised an eyebrow when Maria lifted her gaze to his. Bea couldn’t quite manage it, shifting guiltily instead. “About… six years ago, must have been, Bea was on a ship in Rialto bay that got blown far off course by a storm. Ended up in a little fishing village somewhere on the coast of Rivain, I’d forgotten all about it until about eight months ago. Auvila, was the name.” Maria sent a pointed glance at her sister. “You said it was the nicest place you’d ever gotten stranded, isolated, friendly locals, all it was missing was a brothel.” 

“It still doesn’t have one.” Bea was back to twisting at the cuff of her sleeve. 

“But it has had a  _ boom  _ in fishing. Josephine mentioned it in her reports, the locals were bringing in hauls like nobody could believe, fish from deep in the ocean, places their little boats shouldn’t have been able to go. Whatever their secret was, they weren’t sharing it with anyone.” Maria sighed heavily. “I didn’t put it together, though. Not until I saw that list. You’ve been making an  _ awful _ lot of trips to Rivain, even if you slipped Charter from time to time, she couldn’t be wrong about all of them.” 

Maria stared up at Varric levely. “Auvila doesn’t have a brothel, but I’d put significant money on the fact that it picked up a rather talented smith in the last two years.” 

“I told her doing that thing with the boats and those steam engines was a risk. That she’d draw attention” Bea snapped. “But no, can’t contain fucking genius.”

Didn’t Varric know it. 

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about what happened to Runa.” Varric didn’t. If she had ended up killing Maria, killing their baby in her mad quest to  _ make _ Bianca the daughter Runa wanted... “The woman was a terror, Maria, and she was dying anyway. She knew that golem was dangerous, but she set it off anyway to murder you. She got what she deserved.” 

“I don’t feel guilty.” Maria splayed her palm over her stomach as she spoke, the words quiet and sure. “But she shouldn’t be alone when she hears about it. Even if it was a good idea for me to go, and it’s not, I can’t risk the travel. Varric needs to get back to Kirkwall before the whole city falls into the ocean, and you’re… you’re probably the only other person who ever helped her.”

“I’ll write it down, Mittens.” Varric could do that one last thing for Bianca, surely. “That way you don’t have to recount the whole story. And you should… you should tell her about the baby too.” 

Bianca’s string of dead babies, the one thing she couldn’t make. Varric winced internally. 

“Is this my punishment?” Bea asked, injured expression clear. “I’ve got to break the worst news to Varric’s former flame while you ride off into the sunset?” 

“Bea, you nearly got all of us killed. You’re getting off lightly.” Maria reminded her sternly. “Nanna would have had you wrangling mules for  _ months _ for this. Years maybe. I think you can handle this.” 

 

Kirkwall was a sight for sore eyes. Varric nearly wept openly when they sailed past the twins. Hell, the Gallows itself didn’t set his chest hair on edge as much as it usually did. The constant drizzle of rain in the evening light softened the whole harbor around the edges in a nostalgic way. 

“Compensating.” Bea groused, staring up at the high city walls. “I always felt like Kirkwall was compensating for something.” 

“The tumultuous history of civil war? The political stranglehold from the Templar Order? Unstable internal politics?” Dorian guessed shrewdly. 

“I was thinking cocks.” Bea stated bluntly. “But all those other things  _ also _ probably started with cocks. It usually does.” 

“Truer words have never been spoken.” Dorian sighed. “I’ll just be glad to get off this pile of termite infested…” 

“You take that back!” Isabela raised a fluttering hand to her breast. “Termites! The nerve. The only infestation I have on this boat is one grubby Magister.” 

“ _ Grubby _ ?” Dorian gasped. “Listen here you two-bit slattern I…” 

“Nanna always said this city was crazy.” Bea examined her nails as she perched on the ship’s railing. “Can you imagine what she’d say if she knew it was yours now?” 

“Drag me back too Ostwick by my hair, most likely.” Maria mused thoughtfully. “Nanna gave up being an Orzammar princess to be a criminal, I don’t think she’d like the idea her granddaughter gave up being a criminal to become a princess.” 

“Viscountess.” Bea corrected, leaning back so far Varric had a quick moment of concern that she’d topple right off. “My sister, the Viscountess. I thought nothing could be weirder than Inquisitor, and yet…” 

“And yet.” Maria smiled, stared at the port materializing out of the mist while Isabela and Dorian bickered behind them. Despite the hood of the cape pulled up over her head, strands of dark wet hair were still plastered to her pale skin. Varric couldn’t quite hide his anxiety as she looked over at him, her smile curling lazily like smoke. “You’re suspiciously silent, Varric.” 

“Oh just… waiting for you to realize this is your last chance to bolt.” He joked with an insincere smile he couldn’t quite make real enough. Kirkwall was his home, always would be, and he loved the city the whole way from the grimy, filthy docks to the empty, hollow place where the chantry once stood. He knew every inch of it, had walked down every alley and every step. He wanted her to love it like he did, love every cracked paving stone and seedy tavern. 

“Why would I bolt now?” Maria teased, slipping under his arm. “I’m almost home.” 

He released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, tucked her securely against the broad frame of his chest. “You’re going to regret saying that the  _ second _ you realize how much paperwork has piled up. You won’t see me again until Sunshine’s born.” 

“Maybe I’ll give you a hand.” 

He almost didn’t believe it was a joke, but Maria’s lips twitched with humor and Bea snorted into her palm. Varric chuckled against the wet wool covering her head. “That was underhanded.”

“I had to make the first joke before Hawke stumbled into it like a nug loose in a china shop.” Maria leaned back against him, then narrowed her eyes at the docks approaching rapidly. “Sweet Andraste, is that…?” 

Varric followed Maria’s eyes and focused nearly immediately on what she saw with a startled laugh. He would know that surly human anywhere. He already felt the need to hide all his books from her sword. 

 

_ “Drop your weapon, now!”  _

_ “You’re welcome.” She had an arrow in her left hand, the bow she’d found on the ground in her right. Her flinty eyes met Cassandra’s and didn’t look away, holding her gaze levely. Calmly. “For, you know, taking care of that magic spitting demon at your back. It wasn’t a problem, I was glad to do it.”  _

_ “Now!” Cassandra snarled, tightening her hand on her own blade, heart thumping wildly. She would not have guessed what a deadly archer the dwarf was, but the shots she made in battle spoke of years of practice and ruthless efficiency. She was an opponent to be feared, but still an archer, and an archer was no match for Cassandra’s blade.  _

_ She didn’t drop her bow, but she didn’t string the arrow either. She lifted her jaw imperiously instead. The breach emitted a sick yellow green glow that turned her hair to fire in the eerie light. “If you’re going to lead me through a demon-infested valley, you need to trust me.” She spoke clearly, tone hard as steel.  _

_ “Give me one reason to trust you.” This woman was responsible for this, she must be, there was no other explanation. The Divine, dead. Lives forever lost, the world in danger of being torn asunder. There was no reason to trust her. None at all.  _

_ The woman threw the bow down in a fit of temper that brought color to sickly pale cheeks. The glowing magic mark on her hand sparked and she bit her lip hard at the same time, as if choking on a noise she didn’t want to slip away. “I’m dying anyway, I guess. Lead on then, and I hope the next demon guts you like a fish.”  _

_ She stomped past Cassandra’s sword as if unconcerned by the sharp edge within inches of her throat. As if she trusted Cassandra would not simply slice through it and take justice into her own hands.  _

_ Cassandra sighed. “Wait.”  _

_ The woman’s footsteps halted and Cassandra stepped forward, scooping both bow and quiver from the ice. “You’re right. I cannot protect you.” She sheathed her sword and turned around. The woman, Cadash clan according to Varric (criminals, smugglers, thieves, but not murderers, or so he claimed), had paused with the breach spinning high above her head. Cassandra held out the weapon. “And I cannot expect you to be defenseless. I should remember you agreed to come willingly.”  _

_ She looked wary, cautious, and almost too proud to take the offered weapon, but her fingers twitched toward the bow helplessly before she grabbed it, a small rueful smile at her lips before she slung the quiver over her shoulder with a natural movement speaking of practiced ease.  _

_ “Right.” The word was almost a sigh of relief in her soft, low voice. “Next stop?”  _

 

Cassandra couldn’t stop replaying that moment, one frozen splinter of time forever caught on a loop in her memory. Was that the moment she’d begun to question whether Maria Cadash had been capable of causing such a catastrophe? The first small seed of doubt in a mind that had been convinced she was guilty? 

By the time they made it to the temple, Cassandra was sure of her innocence. By the time she fell attempting to close the breach the  first time, Cassandra had been convinced she was  _ more _ than simply a victim of fate or ill luck. She’d been sent like a blessing, a champion for the faithful. 

Maria laughed when Cassandra said that, shaking out her red hair while she wandered Skyhold and asking if the Maker had a thing for dwarves. Irreverent, impossible, irresistible to the scores of refugees, faithful, formerly hopeless and lost. Suddenly, more than Herald, more than Inquisitor, more than a friend. 

She could never replace Anthony, but she slipped into place beside his ghost as if she’d always been meant to be there. 

“Seeker, your armor’s gonna rust.” Iron Bull commented as she snapped the breastplate back on. The Qunari was relaxing in front of the tavern’s fire drawing stares from every drunk and servant in the room. The Chargers were spread out in various versions of repose as well, mingling in with the locals. 

“Silverite does not rust.” Cassandra huffed. “As you well know.” 

“Right, well, you’re definitely going to get waterlogged. Goin’ down there three times a day isn’t going to make Boss show up any faster.” 

“The Inquisi…” Cassandra stopped, swallowed the title. “She will show up when she pleases, I know.” 

When hadn’t she? But there was comfort in looking for her, as if she’d hear her laugh echoing from the roofs the way it slipped from the battlements. She half expected to catch a whiff of cinnamon and cloves in the air signaling Cassandra had, yet again, just missed her. Cassandra used to find it infuriating.

Now she simply missed it. 

She’d been frightened the Inquisitor wouldn’t come back to herself, not mourning an arm that would never shoot her beloved bow again or the baby that slipped from her grasp. Cassandra felt that fear been until Maria stepped into the Exalted Council like a dragon, until she threw the book at them and whirled out, a vision of red, a storm scattering all before her. No, Cassandra’s herald would come back from this bitter blow. Cassandra knew it then. She believed in Maria Cadash, she would until her very last breath.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t torn between fury and despair. Hawke had been attempting, valiantly, to keep from confirming the announcement from the Divine. She didn’t want to be responsible for telling the various nobles of Kirkwall they’d be denied the wedding of the age. Cassandra did not blame her for avoiding the vultures. 

But if part of the plan had  _ always  _ been for the pair of dwarves to run off and marry each other, there was simply no reason Cassandra should not have been in on it! She should have been there, it was only fair. And if she was not…

If Varric had forced her into it while she was still healing, she would wring his neck. 

“They had a good reason, Seeker.” Bull advised as if reading her thoughts. 

“I am sure they did.” She answered in a clipped, measured tone. 

She thought she heard Bull mutter into his cup as she walked out  the door, “Or they better have a hell of a story.” 

 

“Seeker, I can explain.” 

As if she had not heard that from Varric before. He was smiling his most winning smile, arms outstretched as if he had not a care in the world. She crossed her arms over her breastplate and glared down her nose. “Where is she?” 

“Just saying goodbye to her sister, I swear.” Varric acted as if he was soothing a startled animal, which only made her want to hit him with the hilt of her sword. “She’ll be right down.” 

“Maker’s breath, Cassandra, you look ghastly. Have you been standing out in this rain for hours?” Dorian was bundled up so tightly under a cloak that she could see nothing but his eyes. “Would it be remiss to accuse you of brooding? If that’s what you’ve been doing, splendid job out-brooding us all.” 

“I am not…” Color was rising on her cheeks and she  _ hated _ it. “I have been here for days.” 

“We meant to get here sooner.” Varric confided conspiratorially. “But you know how it is to get Dorian up and moving.” 

“Ah, yes! Throw me under the boat!” Dorian protested. “Let’s say nothing of the trouble that follows our fearless leader around like her very own stormcloud.” 

Something cold sparked in Cassandra’s heart. The very last thing Maria needed was more trouble, not with Solas threatening the very core of their world, not when the countries they saved grew sick of her and tossed her to the side, not when she emerged from her latest trial empty and keening for losses too deep for anyone to experience with her.  “Is she well, is she…?” 

She did not know how to ask if Maria’s heart had begun to mend or if the darkness still lurked beneath her skin. Instead, the fire of anger leapt up inside her heart once more. “Did you really believe  _ now _ was the best time to… to rope her into your shenanigans, Varric?” 

“Shenanigans?” Dorian repeated, voice laced with mirth. 

Cassandra ignored him pointedly. “After all she has been through…” 

“Seeker, I know what she went through. I was there.” Varric crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her severely. “In case you forgot.” 

He  _ left _ . She didn’t care that it had been part of the plan, he should not have left her. Not when his name had been the first thing from her broken, chapped lips. “You did not stay.” 

That was a wound as sure as if she’d punched him in the jaw or stabbed him in the gut, his mouth opening and his fingers tightening in the fabric at his elbows. “Seeker…” He growled low in warning. 

“Every time I leave the two of you alone.” Cassandra did not hear her move, silent as a shadow, to the top of the gangplank, but she always did move like quicksilver. She was descending, Cole at her elbow as if he was her devoted guardian. When she reached the bottom, she pushed the hood of her cloak back to reveal mostly dry hair, bright red in the fading light, and a thoughtful smile. “Cass.” 

She did look well, her color returned, her eyes shadowed but calm. As if she’d found some serenity in their time apart. Still, Cassandra could not help but reach out and touch her, gauntleted hands falling perhaps too heavily on her shoulder, but Maria only continued to smile up at her.

In the Crossroads, Cassandra had begged with every fiber of her being, with every ounce of her faith, for the Maker to stay his hand. She had pleaded inside her head, imploring him to allow Maria Cadash to step out of the flames that threatened to turn her from hero to martyr. Cassandra thought she could not stand to see her friend, her sister, break the way old, worn, overused things did. 

Cassandra was glad to see this was a woman who had not broken, not yet, in spite of all the pain and sorrow.

“They say… they say the most ridiculous things.” Cassandra blurted out. They always said the most outrageous things about her. On her trip to Kirkwall, Cassandra heard no less than seventeen versions of the events at the winter palace, six of which ended with Maria’s death, four that she’d been a Qunari spy the whole time. 

“Did you hear the one where I sailed to Par Vollen to duel the Arishok for Celene? It’s a good one, must be inspired by Hawke.” Maria’s smile was self-deprecating, wry, heartwarming. 

“They say you eloped.” It sounded more like an accusation than Cassandra meant it to, but Maria simply  _ giggled _ the way she did when she showed off Varric’s poems. She leaned up on tiptoes, dragging Cassandra’s ear down to her level. 

“It was probably the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m going to tell you  _ everything _ , I promise.” She whispered conspiratorially. “I’m so sorry you weren’t there. You should have been.” 

Cassandra blinked quickly, surprised at the tide of emotions. Maria had  _ wanted _ her there, and she seemed well, but still... “Are you… are you certain it was wise, my friend? You have been through so much, your loss… I cannot even fathom. It is a large decision and...” 

Cassandra didn’t miss Varric’s exasperated sigh, but she chose to ignore it as well. Perhaps he had Maria’s best interests at heart, but people in love did not think clearly, and Varric loved Maria Cadash. He may think he had done her a favor, but Maria had lost so much, in such a short span of time, and if she had not been thinking clearly… 

Maria very gently took Cass’s arm and placed it on her abdomen under the thick cloak, covered not by the leather armor Cassandra was used to, but by a thin cotton shirt of the kind she favored when she had no battles planned. Cassandra could feel the boning of the undergarments she wore, then the seam where it ended and her bare skin began under the cloth.

Bare skin that rose in a subtle curve, far more pronounced than Cassandra had ever seen while she lived and worked beside the Inquisitor. Maria’s life was not suited to growing soft, but the rounded curve was unmistakably new and utterly soft. 

Soft like the wool Cassandra saw in the market only two days prior, the kind fit for small blankets and tiny hands. 

“I didn’t lose everything, Cass.” Maria whispered as if she had read Cassandra’s mind. “Not the most important things, anyway.” 

The Maker placed her at Haven, sheltered her from the avalanche, carried her through the Fade, stood beside her when she faced Corypheus. How could Cassandra think that he would abandon Maria Cadash at her most dire? 

It was not hard for Cassandra to lift Maria clear off her feet, she was significantly less dense than Varric. There was an odd, empty place where her arm should be, but it didn’t matter. The world needed her kindness, her strength, her mercy, not her arm. “Maker be praised.” Cassandra prayed in Maria’s ear, tightening her grip on the small woman.

“Alright, Seeker, let’s try not to squash them. Or drop her.” Varric was gently trying to pry the two apart as Maria laughed. Cassandra sat Maria back on her feet in a second and pulled Varric to her in the next, throwing her arms around his shoulders in an embrace that was much more awkward, but just as sorely needed. 

“And look, you still know before Hawke!” Varric groaned, patting Cassandra’s shoulder awkwardly. “She’ll be thrilled.” The sarcasm was clear, even to Cassandra. 

“Hawke knew you were married before I did!” Cassandra protested, pulling away and glaring. Varric’s smile stayed put, but something sad bloomed in his eyes. 

“I couldn’t risk someone trying to tell us no, Seeker, or we’d have waited. Mitters has got the guild as mad as bees stuffed in Sera’s pack, if we’d have tried to do it properly…” 

“Varric was kidnapped.” Maria declared immediately, cutting off Varric’s explanation. “I had to rescue him. Fought a golem and everything.” 

“You did not.” Cassandra couldn’t help her mouth from falling open. “A golem?” 

“I did!” Maria grinned, slipped her arm through Cassandra’s and squeezed lightly. “But if you’re not interested in hearing about it…” 

“No!” She couldn’t help the breathless anticipation. “Tell me everything.” 

 

Varric’s office looked like a Qunari horde had trampled through it. Instead of neat stacks of correspondence, towering mountains of paperwork littered every surface. Varric also spotted several children’s toys, one bottle of ale, the remnants of at least three meals, a torn blouse half mended with a needle stabbed through it like a sword, and a dagger embedded into the mantle where he liked to sit Bianca. 

Apparently, he’d be taking Maria up on her offer of assistance. He needed all hands on deck to get this back to working order sometime in the next age. 

Still, Varric couldn’t even be properly irritated because he was so damn relieved to see the woman snoring away in his favorite chair in front of the fireplace, head back and mouth wide open, boots on the edge of one of Varric’s (expensive, he complained internally) tables. Papers scattered around her, long fallen from her relaxed fingertips. 

There was never an  _ easy _ way to wake Hawke up. The best thing to do was stand clear and make as much noise as possible. Varric also appropriated the long staff from beside the chair, just in case, moving it out of grabbing distance. He didn’t come all this way just to be incinerated in his own damn office. Once he was ready, all he had to do was tip over a precarious stack of books, containing the entirety of Kirkwall laws, onto the ground and wait. 

The books hit the floor with an unholy racket and Hawke sprung up like a demon, on the balls of her feet and reaching for the staff he’d taken on instinct more than anything. Varric fought the urge to laugh and reclined back in the chair at the desk as she blinked wildly around the room before her lyrium blue eyes landed on him. He raised an eyebrow nonchalantly and made a grand sweeping gesture across the room. “I demand an explanation for the state of my office, and it better be convincing.” 

“Oh you  _ ass _ .” Hawke swept across the room like a tornado, pulling him from the chair with one arm and smashing him to her chest right at the level of her tits. “You’re lucky I didn’t burn the whole damn thing down. I considered it a frightening number of times.” 

“I’m lucky you didn’t do it by accident, to be honest.” Varric teased, pulling away for decency’s sake.

“Would have served you right for letting me here to deal with this shitstorm.” When Hawke pulled back and examined him critically, her eyes were watery under her bright smile. “Maker, Varric, what a mess. I  _ almost _ thought I was responsible, it was such a disaster.” 

“We were trying to figure out how to blame it on you, so far no luck.” Varric couldn’t help but notice the pulse of healing trickling from Hawke’s fingers down his shoulders. “Hey now, I’m fine Waffles.” 

“Well, chest hair still looks like its in working order. That’s the most important thing, but you look exhausted.” Hawke breezed on sunnily, the babble of nerves lingering just under her light tone, but her fingers pressed tighter into his shoulders. “Thom told us everything. The Qunari, Solas, the damn Merchant’s Guild, her arm, the…” Hawke swallowed, hard. 

“Well, Hero didn’t have the most up-to-date information.” Varric pried her fingers off his shoulders carefully. 

“I’m assuming not.” Hawke began dryly. “Do you know how many guild members have slithered over to my estate to express their congratulations? I haven’t even released your blasted decree yet and I’ve got so many dwarves coming and going from our house, Fenris asked if we’d become a tavern.” 

“Right before he ran them off, I hope.” Varric snorted, amused at the thought of Fenris showing his magic fisting trick to a few snobbish pricks. 

Hawke’s smile was genuine this time, without the lingering hint of sadness. “He told the last one if another visitor woke Eli up from his nap, they’d become a dwarf-sized chew toy for Lucia. Is Maria here? I’d like to take a look, can’t trust Orlesian healers. Or Orlesians, really. I can’t grow back an arm, but I am handy.” Hawke winced at her own ill-timed humor. “Maker, I’m horrid. Maybe I should stay down here. She’s going to stab me.” 

“We’ve actually gotten to the point where we’re making our own amputee jokes, so that’s alright. Just… don’t tell her she’s gotten fat.” Varric watched Hawke’s expression as her brows drew together.

“Well, I confess to being uncertain exactly how much an arm weighs, but she’s that much lighter so she can gain at least a pound or two.” Hawke mused, turning to pick through the mess to her staff. “If I’d had the month she had, I’d be hitting the little Orlesian cakes harder than usual too.” 

“Pickles, actually.” Hawke could be remarkably thick sometimes. “By the jar full. And she wants those little puffy Orlesian things Bull puts in his cocoa.” 

“Oh!” Hawke’s face lit up as she continued to dance through the disaster area. “Guimauves! I haven’t had those since Eli was born, I used to want them terribly when I…” 

There it was. She’d made Fenris beg, borrow, and steal those damn guimauves from Iron Bull. She’d eat them while mocking Orlesian accents and watching Fenris knock soldiers down in the sparring ring at Skyhold. Hawke’s expression turned as sharp as the bird her family took its name from and she turned to pin him with those bright eyes. “Varric…” 

“I guess...” He meant to go about this more lighthearted, without the tears threatening to choke him. Hawke would appreciate the attempt at levity, even if it was ruined by him having to clear his throat to continue. “I guess we were due for some good luck, Waffles.” 

Hawke’s hands froze for only a moment, a breathless second of stillness before she let out a shriek of pure joy and threw her long human limbs at him, knocking them both to the office floor with her surprising strength. Varric was grateful the back of his head hit the rug and not the damn stones. 

“It’ll only be a bit younger than Eli!” Hawke chattered, excited. “They can have  _ playdates _ . Playdates, Varric! And think of the trouble they can get into! Aveline will be tearing her hair out! It’ll be glorious mayhem, glorious!” 

“By the time they’re ten she’ll already have a cell set aside for them.” Varric chuckled. 

“Two cells!” Hawke grinned. “A sizeable distance apart, I imagine, so they can’t plot their escapes.”

“We’ve got make sure Kirkwall’s still standing when they’re old enough to appreciate this shithole.” Varric frowned, shoving Hawke’s weight off of him and sitting up. “We’ve got serious problems.” 

“Starting with this.” Maria’s voice cut in, scolding, from the office doorway. Hawke jumped up off the floor as if she’d been scalded, hands out in appeasement. 

“I swear I only fondled him a little bit.” Hawke began innocently, but Maria wasn’t even looking at the human, her eyes swinging in despair around the room. 

“Maker, Hawke, the only explanation I want to hear is  _ how _ in the world this mess happened?” Maria rubbed her forehead, examining the mess critically. “Spell gone awry? Rune explosion? Fenris had a rough day? Greased nugs?” 

“I shouldn’t be left in charge of all… this.” Hawke waved her arms in exasperation. Maria met Varric’s eyes in mute horror.

“Is it too late to have second thoughts about this Viscountess thing?” Maria’s tone was serious, but her lips were curved upwards. “I didn’t vote to leave Hawke in charge, so I don’t think I should be responsible for cleaning this up.” 

“That’s what Aveline said too.” Hawke dropped into a chair, long limbs stretched out to take up as much space as she could. “But I’ll call it even for the gatlock disaster I had to clean up, lady Viscountess.” 

Maria’s shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “Fair enough.” She whispered, leaning against the door frame, eyes catching the light from the fireplace. “I’m sorry.” 

“You should be.” Hawke yawned. “Fenris has been a  _ nightmare _ .” 

Maria winced and Hawke grinned. “Oh, on your  _ behalf _ .” Hawke sank deeper into the cushions of the chair. “He’s very nearly as mad about what happened to the two of you as he is about what we pulled out of here. He’ll always have a soft spot for the Inquisitor, apparently. Could make a girl jealous.” 

“Weren’t you just fondling my husband?” Maria asked with a glimmer of amusement surging in her bright eyes. 

Husband. Something in Varric trembled in delight and he grinned immediately. 

Worth it, he thought as he looked around the trashed office. It was all worth it. 


	37. Rise of the Viscountess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody will let Maria hide herself in the Viscount's Keep.

 

Isabela had a point about Aveline, the woman reminded Maria of a battering ram from the roots of her ginger hair down to her mud stained boots. Aveline’s tense jaw was more impressive than Cullen’s most scowling face. But Maria knew how to make use of all the damn steps in the Viscount’s keep after her two weeks in residence, and stopping two steps above Aveline meant she had the slight height advantage when she turned to glare at the nagging woman. 

“Absolutely not.” Aveline dropped her tone to something close to menacing. “You cannot simply… appropriate parts of the keep for your personal use.” 

“I’m reasonably certain I can.” Maria contradicted easily. “This is my home now, isn’t it?” 

“You can… build sitting rooms and change the trim in the halls!” Aveline argued impassionately. “You cannot simply take the building off the courtyard…” 

“Aveline, I don’t need a sitting room and the trim is fine. Really brings out all the… gray.” Maria smirked down at the other woman. “I want the building off the courtyard for Dagna. She’ll be here in two weeks.” 

Aveline started to turn as red as Maria’s hair, beginning with her ears. “I had thought to obtain some mabari hounds…” 

“This isn’t Ferelden. What are you going to do with mabari hounds?” Maria asked, resting her hand on her hip irritably. “Let them lose to roll in Darktown? Can you imagine the smell?” 

“I have heard about this arcanist of yours…” Aveline returned her glare ferociously, every inch as determined as Maria was. 

“She’s brilliant. I need her here.” Maria lifted her own jaw, a move mirrored by Aveline nearly immediately. 

“Ladies.” Varric broke in wearily from the bottom of the steps. “Do you know every time the two of you start, the nobles get twitchy? We can hear you the whole way out in the main hall  _ and  _ you’re going to give one of the De Launcets heart palpitations.” 

“Good.” Both Maria and Aveline snapped at the same time. Varric chuckled, shaking his head and climbing up the steps with a leisurely, ambling gait and a sappy smile that hadn’t dropped since they stepped foot in Kirkwall. Home, she thought wistfully, she brought Varric home, and there was something to be proud of in salvaging that much. 

Maria knew he wanted her to love it the same way, but Maria was beginning to realize home was more than a place to her. Home was the way she woke up with Varric’s arm draped over her abdomen nearly every morning, his breath sleep warmed on her neck. Home was the whistling tune he hummed while he worked, the rhythmic scratch of his quill on parchment a cadence as familiar as a lullaby and the flowers that appeared wherever he knew she’d look - on top of her favorite blouse or nestled between maps as if by magic (or, most likely, Cole.) 

Home was the swatches of fabric hidden in between her lackluster attempts to teach herself to write with her left hand, the ones in shades of yellow and blue that would look wonderful in the room Varric wanted to turn into their nursery. 

And she needed to protect it, protect them. To do that, she needed her people, the best people in Thedas. “I want the building off the courtyard Aveline’s saving for some… Ferelden pipe dream.” Maria waved her arm dismissively down at Aveline as Varric joined her on the upper step. 

“For?” Varric asked mildly, sweeping his gaze critically across whatever was in his hand while he leaned towards her and placed a distracted kiss on her cheekbone. Maria used her fingers to bring his jaw back in her direction, distracting him from the correspondence in his hand. 

“Dagna.” She admitted with her most charming, sweetest smile. Varric raised his eyebrows in mock alarm while his lips twitched in suppressed amusement. 

“Princess, that’s  _ awfully _ close to our bedroom to risk Dagna’s… experiments.” He began cautiously, stealing her fingers in his and kissing the tips of them. Aveline harrumphed in triumph. 

“That’s exactly what the rumors say. That you employ some sort of dwarven madwoman.” Aveline’s eyes glittered victoriously. The rumors, Aveline didn’t point out, also pretty clearly stated Maria herself  _ might  _ be a dwarven madwoman. 

“She’s just exuberant.” Maria dismissed Aveline’s fear-mongering easily, but Varric grinned from ear to ear, not even bothering to hide his humor. 

“She  _ exuberantly _ blew up the undercroft  _ at least _ twice.” Varric pointed out. “That I know about.” 

It was more like five times, if Maria was counting right. Still, she wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat even if he did have a point. She enjoyed his small, teasing smile entirely too much.  “Small, controlled explosions.” She waved his concerns away airily. 

“We need to find somewhere else for her small, controlled explosions. Those kinds of words make the residents or Kirkwall twitchy.” Varric lifted up the papers in his hand with feigned mild annoyance. “I thought you were supposed to be helping with…” 

“I went through all the import backlogs while you were holding Bran’s hand.” Maria interrupted. “ _ And  _ I balanced the accounts for the keep. Don’t try to distract me.” 

“I’d never dream of it.” Varric met Aveline’s eyes and shook his head, shrugging in defeat. “Let go of the mabaris, Aveline. She can’t put Dagna there, but Maria can have the space for something less likely to kill us all.” 

Maria fought the urge to stick out her tongue, but was stopped short by Varric’s rather more apologetic grimace when he turned back to her. “I was coming to tell you we’re having a party, apparently.” 

“What?” Her heart stuttered in a small flurry of panic. “When?” 

She still  _ barely _ ventured past certain parts of the keep, more at home in the inner areas outside the glare of the assembled nobility who whispered her name daily with greater agitation. She’d also snuck out, heavily cloaked with Cole, to peruse the Lowtown markets and the Docks, where she’d mostly been able to avoid lingering glances, although she had noticed more and more scrutiny as she ventured out. Apparently, nobody was content to let the Viscountess live a life in the shadows with her one arm and the baby growing inside her. Aveline flushed in triumph. 

“It’s about time.” The woman began. “Kirkwall’s Viscountess can’t hide forever. The city needs to see you.” 

The city had Varric and Hawke to dazzle and delight, Maria failed to see how she was necessary. She opened her mouth to say so, but was stopped short by Varric’s hand on her arm. 

“Princess, we need to do it  _ before  _ our bun in the oven is too big to hide.” Varric whispered, slipping his arm through hers easily. Maria’s pregnancy was still a closely held secret, trusted to more than a dozen friends. It could be overly cautious, but Solas had been convinced she’d lost the baby to the anchor. He couldn’t think that forever, but the longer he did… if they could keep their secret until Magpie was born, that’d be best, because by then Maria could take up arms and fight again.

A part of her whispered that Solas wouldn’t hurt her baby, he was her friend. The rest of Maria scoffed at the naivete. 

“I can guarantee I don’t have a dress that will fit.” The excuses rolled off her tongue easily enough, deflecting and dodging. 

“Varania said she’ll handle that herself, start to finish, so nobody needs to know.” Varric countered easily. Unfortunately, if anyone could prepare for Maria’s weaving and ducking, it was Varric. He would have already thought everything through, he’d have a contingency for every worry she voiced. As if to prove it, he sweetened the pitch even further. “Dorian said he won’t leave until he gets you through your first social event as Viscountess, and Cassandra already said she’ll be there the whole time to rescue you from borish idiots.” 

Maria could admit defeat graciously enough, for Varric at least. She leaned against his solid arm, signaling her yielding position. “What am I supposed to do at this party?” She asked grimly. 

“Make up for Hawke’s lack of tact, mostly. It’s what I do.” Varric turned just enough to brush his rough stubble over her hair, landing a sweet kiss on the crown of her head. “I know it isn’t as exciting as playing the Game or stopping assasination attempts…”

Maria smoothed her tunic down, pressed the loose fabric taut over her abdomen to reveal the growing bulge. “I think I’m a bit done with excitement for now, Varric.” 

“For now.” He agreed with that wonderful, blissful smile again, his hand over hers. They both ignored the exasperated (and fond) noise Aveline made.  

 

“How long you been staring at these, boss?” Bull asked nonchalantly, casting his pointed gaze at the maps pinned to every surface of the library. Maria tried not to yawn when she looked up, but honestly, she was a bit tired. She’d been up since the crack of dawn staring at maps, trying to remember the site of every old Elven ruin she’d ever traipsed through with a degree of uselessness she typically thought reserved for squawking old chantry mothers before she’d turned her attention to some of the administrative tasks long neglected at the Viscount’s Keep. Varric and Hawke were good, but the two of them had been in crisis mood or absentia since Varric took the crown. The last person to go through everything with a fine tooth comb was probably Mad Meredith herself. 

She wondered if Meredith would have started executing people if she’d discovered the things Maria had.  The Viscount’s Keep was bursting with hidden little rotten secrets, maggots crawling in the fruit. Somebody in the kitchen was taking bribes from seedier Antivan merchants, at least one spy for Markham worked in the guard right under Aveline’s pointed nose, the keep was routinely overcharged for wine, tax money meant for upkeep of the harbor was landing elsewhere than government coffers, and the servants were underpaid horrendously, the Elven ones worst of all. 

“Care to check these out for me?” Maria asked, pushing a folder of the worst things she’d found towards Bull. Her rage had long since cooled into a hard edge, one she could use to demand answers, but Bull would check her if she was wrong. “Kirkwall, not Solas. Haven’t made much progress on the bigger issue.” 

Hopefully, Dagna would be able to help. Maria hadn’t even found a way to tell Varric the woman was bringing the Eluvian Morrigan left at Skyhold too. Maria didn’t know what would happen to the castle ( _ her  _ castle, she corrected with a pang of regret), but she couldn’t just leave the Eluvian there. She also, obviously, couldn’t leave it in the heart of Kirkwall or send it to the Divine in Val Royeaux. 

Assume everything you know is a lie, she reminded herself. It was quickly becoming her favorite motto, although it’d look shitty embroidered on throw pillows. Assume everything you know is a lie and start from scratch. The Eluvians were a critical piece of the puzzle, and if she started there… 

“Damn, boss.” Bull stroked his stubble with one hand, shaking his head. “How long did it take you to unravel this?” 

“A  _ ridiculously _ short amount of time. Nobody was even trying to hide it anymore in this damn city.” Maria huffed, irritated. “There’s more, I’m sure. This is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Well, it looks like solid information to me.” Bull grumbled, handing the papers back to her. “Seneschal should have been keeping an eye on this, but he’s probably ass deep in it. Maybe you can scare him straight?” 

“Varric will want to…” Maria began. 

“Think it’s the Viscountess who’s in charge of these household matters, Boss.” Bull grinned, easy and friendly. “Varric will do it if you want him to because he’s so wrapped up in your fingers he doesn’t know up from down, but it’s your call.” 

Maria wasn’t an ace in Wicked Grace for nothing, and she knew what Bull was trying to do immediately. This was  _ urgent _ if it was her job, and because it was so urgent, she needed to march right out of this library, down the steps, into the public section of the keep and past every assembled noble to demand an explanation from Bran.

Maria’s stomach flipped, almost like the baby inside her was protesting that plan, insisting they needed to stay back here, away from eyes that zeroed in on her missing arm, that whispered behind their hands about who she was, what she’d done, why Varric had… 

“That party is happening in a week and half whether or not you’re ready. Might as well see how bad it is to walk past them.” Bull advised neutrally. “If you don’t want to walk back, you can hide in Varric’s office until they all go home. I think he has plans that involve you and that desk in there anyway.” 

He was right, of course he was right. Well, maybe not about the desk, but about the other thing. “Stay here.” She ordered tersely, straightening stiffly. “As much fun as it is to watch them flinch when you walk past, I might be able to make less of a splash without you.” 

“I’m here if you need me.” Bull offered, slinking down into one of the rickety wooden chairs. It groaned under his weight.

 

She held the folder of documents in front of her abdomen, just in case anyone noticed the bulge under the flowing fabric. Nobody looked up when the door opened, but she knew her luck wouldn’t hold. It never did. 

“Maker’s breath, that’s her.” 

She’d hack off every piece of hair on her head if it helped her slip through nobles unidentified. Unfortunately, being bald with one arm was probably as noticeable as the bright red locks she’d been so fucking proud of as a young woman flirting and thieving her way through Ostwick. 

“She’s still got her looks.” Someone whispered shrewdly. “Even with…” 

“Well, a one-armed Viscountess isn’t the worst thing in the…”

“Can I assist you, my lady?” 

“No.” She answered without seeing who had stepped forward to offer. “Excuse me.” 

“They say she…” 

“A criminal before…” 

“Banished from Orlais…” 

She lifted her chin higher, as if the rumors would roll right off her the way the words “carta whore” or “heretical slattern” used to. She didn’t rip her eyes from the door to the Viscount’s office suites, slipping past the first set of guards into the more secluded, private corridor. Behind her, the hall erupted into a hissing desert of whispers.

It would get better, probably. She wouldn’t be a spectacle the rest of her life, surely? She turned her attention to the second set of guards, settling an impassive mask on her face. “Is the Seneschal in his office?” 

The guardswoman, bless her heart, answered first. The lad beside her was gawking down at Maria too much to be bothered. “Yes, milady. The Viscount is at the harbor meeting with Antivan merchant representatives, but the Seneschal is available. Should I announce you?” 

“No.” The expression in the woman’s eyes wasn’t unkind, a mixture of curiosity and a bit of nervous excitement. Maria could manage that, she’d seen it a hundred times. “What’s your name, guardsman?” 

“Nadia, milady. Nadia Orwald.” She saluted smartly. “Still just a recruit in training, not quite a guardsman yet.” 

Maria filed away the name and smiled, an easy small thing. “Nice to meet you. If you hear Bran shouting… well, don’t worry about it.” 

“I typically don’t.” The woman said under her breath. Maria bit back an amused giggle before slipping into the office. The Seneschal looked up, managing an expression both patronizing and bored. “My lady Viscountess, a pleasure to see you out.” 

She ignored the implications and held up her folder after she closed the door “Have you ever heard the expression ‘while the cat’s away, the mice will play’, Bran?” 

“Charming. I have not, but I don’t have your… experience with the masses. I’m well aware of all the vulgarity you’ve picked up, it’s nice to know you also have some adorable sayings.” Bran steepled his fingers and looked over them, whisking them briefly across her, lingering pointedly on the missing arm before returning to her face.

Maria was fucking sick of that look. The look of a man who thought he knew better, a man assured of his place in the world while she scrambled and clawed for hers. Inside her chest, an angry young woman rattled the bars of decorum and good sense threateningly. Maria allowed a smile to curl her lips, but it was a thing made of teeth and fire. “Ah good, then you won’t be offended when I call you a fucking rat, will you?” 

“Excuse me?” Bran rocked backwards, brow furrowed. “You may have been able to get away with that degree of disrespect when you were Inquisitor but…” 

“And if you’re a rat, Bran.” Maria continued, nonplussed, dropping the folder on his desk. “Then you should know that this is a courtesy call telling you that a rather large cat has moved in. One who isn’t going to let you use this office for profit, am I clear?” 

“Your insinuation…” 

“I’m not insinuating anything.” Maria pitched her voice low. “I know about the bribes. I know about the gross negligence, and I know whose incompetence is responsible for all of it. And you better hope it’s incompetence, Bran, because when I find out it isn’t…” 

“You’re threatening me!” Bran accused. His beady little eyes darted between her and the door as if measuring distance. “When the nobility hears about this…” 

“I’m not threatening, I’m promising.” Maria seated herself in the chair across from his desk, opening the folder to a random sheaf of paper. “So, let’s start with how we expect  _ anyone _ to live on five coppers a week. And the Elves only make two? Isn’t this one of the wealthiest trading hubs in Thedas?” 

“The people have grown accustomed to…” 

“Starving?” Maria looked up from the paper, pinned him in place with her gaze. 

“Living thriftily!” Bran protested. “And if the keep, as the largest employer of servants, raised the wage then all the nobility would be…” 

“Forced to do so as well, I imagine.” Maria began dryly. “Which is why we’ll be raising the wage to three silvers a week for all of our servants.” 

“That will bankrupt us!” 

“Not when I figure out where all our harbor taxes are going, and why we’re being overcharged so much for basic foodstuffs.” Maria raised her eyes from the paper again. “Unless you have some ideas about that? If you do, I suggest telling me now.” 

“The Viscount…” 

Maria couldn’t contain her laugh. “Has  _ never _ been good at telling me no and probably isn’t going to start with something as important as this. It was only a matter of time until he figured you out, Bran, I just beat him to it.” 

“I will not be spoken to like this!” Bran squawked. “I will…I will resign rather than listen to this nonsense from an upstart!” 

Maria slammed the folder closed and stood. She turned her back on Bran and walked back to the door, wrenching it open with all her strength. The guards on duty, both the gawking lad and the girl called Nadia, were struggling to keep straight faces. “Guardsman Orwald, a moment?” 

“Yes milady.” The guard peeled herself from the wall, slipping to Maria’s side in a smooth easy movement. 

“The Seneschal has tendered his resignation.” She said smoothly, ignoring Bran’s sputtering behind her. 

“So I heard, milady.” Nadia wasn’t winning the battle with her wicked grin. “A shame. He’ll be missed.” 

She liked this woman. Maria wondered how she’d go about pinching her from Aveline. “If you could stay with him while he cleans his office out? I’ll notify the Viscount and the Guard Captain.” 

“I’ll make sure he gets all of his things and only his things.” Nadia promised. “Anything else, milady?” 

“Not at present.” Maria chirped with a wink, slipping down the hall. She heard Bran attempt to follow, heard Nadia bark out an order to get to packing as her armor rattled ominously. Maria ducked back into the main foyer, heart thumping with fury and something akin to the same panic she’d felt getting ready for her first ball at Halamshiral. 

Maker, could she just fire the Seneschal? Was she allowed to do that? 

And of course, to find out, she’d have to ask  _ Aveline _ because Varric had to go and be busy. The only bright spot seemed to be that she’d been wrapped up so much in her dread, she barely even noticed all the whispers while she trailed back across the keep and descended into the barracks. The guards all saluted smartly as she trailed past, although she almost wished somebody would stop and ask  _ what _ she was doing invading the barracks. 

Nobody would dare, she thought, half amused.  

She knocked briskly on Aveline’s office, but instead of entering when Aveline gruffly invited to do so, she simply opened the door and poked her head in. She was met not just by Aveline, but Fenris as well scowling over some old map of Darktown. “Right, sorry to interrupt.” Maria smiled sweetly. “Nice day, isn’t it? Just need Aveline for a moment.” 

“Cadash.” Fenris greeted with a measure of fondness Maria wasn’t sure she earned. “It is no trouble.” 

“What is it?” Aveline asked, brusque and waspish. Maria continued to stand in the door, bracing herself on the door frame with her one hand. 

“Just a quick, hypothetical question.” Maria shrugged inelegantly. “Am I allowed to fire the Seneschal?” 

Fenris was the one that answered with an irritated huff. “Unfortunately, you are not. The man holds a hereditary position that is near impossible to remove him from, despite our wishes. The only way we would be free of his idiocy is if he resigns his position.” 

Well, at least Fenris would be happy. “And if he happened to resign in the midst of arguing with me… and I happened to accept it… theoretically what would happen next?” 

Aveline looked away from the map of Darktown, jaw dropping open. “I don’t think for a minute this conversation is hypothetical. What have you done?” 

“I believe if that were to happen.” Fenris’s lips were twisting into a wry, satisfied little smirk. “You would be well within your rights to accept his resignation as the Viscountess and remove him from the keep.” 

“Well in that case… I have him packing his things. His resignation was witnessed by two of your guards, one of whom is supervising the packing at the moment.” Maria leaned against the doorframe, stiffled a yawn. Aveline’s mouth continued to work like a fish out of water, silent and gasping, but Fenris simply shook his head and turned to her, gauntleted palm out. 

“I am owed five sovereigns.” He said simply. “And two silver from Donnic.” 

A small bubble of laughter caught in her throat. “You’re betting on me? What was the wager?” 

“I thought you would drive Bran out in a month, but as always, you have exceeded expectations by accomplishing the seemingly impossible in record time.” Fenris did cast a disparaging glance her way. “Although I will have to concede some of my winnings to the Iron Bull. I did not believe he would convince you to venture out today, Cadash.” 

Bull hadn’t even done any real work, and she nearly told Fenris so, but she bit her tongue instead. “Well, I think I’ll languish down here for awhile and poke around the barracks. Give the nobles and Bran some time to disperse.” 

That was enough to make Aveline actually say a word. Two words, actually. “The Gallows.” 

She hoped her expression looked as puzzled as Fenris’s. “What about it?” Fenris asked tersely. 

“Nobody is using it.” Aveline scowled down at her map before bringing her bright gaze back up to Maria’s. “Nobody from here is ever going to want to use it after what happened there, but the blood is cleaned up and your people helped get rid of the red lyrium in the first place. Anything you bring there would be contained and no threat to Kirkwall.” 

It was an answer. Not a perfect answer, but an answer. It was an old circle, there’d be plenty of space for Dagna, probably a whole forge she could take over. The Eluvian would be safely within her grasp, but outside Kirkwall proper. “The people of Kirkwall won’t like the idea of another Meredith lording it over the Gallows.” Maria began cautiously.

“You are no Meredith.” Fenris began bluntly. “And you can make the people of Kirkwall love you the same way the people of Ferelden and Orlais do, you need only try.”

“The common people already adore Varric.” Aveline grumbled. “They always have because they remember him lording it over the Hanged Man with Hawke.” 

“The nobles…” Maria heard their whispering. Aveline grimaced but it was Fenris that spoke.

“Are not important.” Fenris glowered in her direction. “As you well know.” 

“What do you want me to do, Fenris?” If she had both hands, she’d strangle him. “Stroll down to Lowtown, show them my missing hand, say…” 

“Yes.” Fenris interrupted. “It is what you have done everywhere else. Why should it not work now?” 

It didn’t work, she wanted to scream. It didn’t work because she’d been on the run, her Inquisition was gone, one of her best friends was threatening the world she was about to bring a baby into. 

The woman reflected in Fenris’s piercing gaze looked small and lost, but Fenris didn’t blink or tear his gaze away. “If you can remove Bran from office, you are more than capable of going to Lowtown and letting the people see you.” 

“They’ll stare.” It was a stupid thing to say, and an even stupider thing to say to Fenris of all people, but he didn’t curse at her or snarl. Instead, he simply nodded. 

“Yes. And they won’t ever stop.” He answered calmly. “Magic has left its mark on you, Cadash, but you survived it. So let them stare if it pleases them, it does not change who you are.” 

Fenris who told her once that she  _ was _ Varric’s mistress and people would say it regardless of whether or not she wished. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I don’t know my way around.” 

It was her feeble, useless way of asking him to come with her. Utterly transparent and tissue-thin, but Fenris nodded, putting the scrolls he held down on Aveline’s desk. “I can ensure you will not get lost.” 

And they’d stare at him too, the Champion’s husband and the Viscount’s wife, scarred survivors of things beyond their understanding. 

“And I will go assist in running Bran off.” Aveline’s smile was entirely too smug and satisfied. “Honestly, it’s worth every bit of coin I just lost.” 

 

_ Blood magic had a smell. It smelled of sulfur and rot, like bloated corpses and burning flesh. Maria would never forget that smell as long as she lived, the way Adamant smelled the day the Inquisition stormed it.  _

_ She could smell it in the air, even as she walked through the empty fortress. Evidence of the battle could be found everywhere, bloody blades, ruined walls, scorch marks and corpses. Yet, everything was oddly still. _

_ She didn’t know she was dreaming, not at first, not until she looked down and saw the anchor sputtering in her right hand. She flexed her fingers as she walked into the inner bailey, watched the green light spark and shimmer under her pale skin. In her left hand, she held Bianca, but the weight felt sure and steady, right somehow despite the size of it, unlike the last time she’d held the weapon.  _

_ It was a dream because she had the mark and it didn’t hurt. If it was real, if she still possessed the anchor, the pain would be unbearable. And if this was a dream… _

_ Chantal said she could go where she wanted, although Maria couldn’t picture a destination, she knew anything was better than this place of filth and death. There was a door, one she hadn’t gone through when she stormed the keep. There hadn’t been time, but she reached for the handle this time with her marked palm, wrenched it open.  _

_ She stepped onto the highest ledge above a city burning. For a fleeting, heart-wrenching moment she thought she’d stumbled into Hercinia. Her breath came in a shallow, stuttering gasp until she heard the roar of a dragon.  _

_ Not the highest ledge, a tower of some kind instead looking over a city in flames. And to her right, a dragon screeching, covered in inky darkness and oozing sores. The blight, she thought suddenly. The blight.  _

_ An archdemon.  _

_ And in front of it, a girl with her long dark hair braided in two matching plaits coming unraveled, her hands bloody, clutching her staff like it was the only thing keeping her upright. At her feet, bodies Maria recognized, some she did not. A pile of stone, an old woman, a qunari with no horns, a dog… _

_ Alistair Theirin, Morrigan, Leliana, Zevran, bodies bloody and broken at the feet of the archdemon while Chantal stood alone against the beast. But something had happened, changed, shifted when she entered the dream. Maria saw Chantal turn, her face a frightened child instead of a fearless woman.  _

_ Then, in the blink of Maria’s eyes, Chantal Amell stood strong, tall, her body whole and staff glowing. “You’re getting the hang of it.” She said softly as the archdemon roared behind her in slow motion, shaking the very foundation of the tower they stood on. _

_ “This is just a nightmare.” Maria reassured immediately while she swept her eyes over the mangled bodies, staring sightlessly at the sky.  _

_ “I know. I knew as soon as you arrived.” Chantal smiled, a small quirk of her lips while she looked out over the landscape around them. “I have this nightmare frequently. Thank you for easing it.”  _

_ She hadn’t meant to. She had simply thought of Chantal and emerged, but it didn’t seem to matter to the woman. “Has it gotten easier?” Chantal asked calmly. _

_ The smell of fire, of charred flesh and blight, was making Maria ill. “I don’t know.” She answered honestly. “Maybe.”  _

_ She knew she was dreaming, and that was a start. The fade hadn’t summoned her ghosts to haunt her, and that was an improvement.  _

_ The archdemon roared and Chantal sighed as if weary of the whole thing, dropping her staff to the ground with an unholy clatter and bending to retrieve the sword, lovingly, from Alistair’s hand. She didn’t weep or wail, only smiled with a sort of resignation, as if recognizing the unasked questions in Maria’s face.  _

_ “Denerim burned.” Chantal said quietly. “But life went on. Isn’t that amazing?”  _

_ Perhaps it was. The blade dragged on the ground when Chantal turned to face the dragon.  _

_ The storm meeting flame in one catastrophic, endless moment, then all was white, endless, pure.  _

 

Someone’s fingers stroked through her hair, gentle and loving, leather clad digits tracing down her jaw, the gloves so worn from use they were buttery soft. “Mmm, Varric.” She mumbled, not bothering to open her eyes. 

She couldn’t smell fire or ash, no charred flesh or blood magic. All she could smell was leather and roses. “So, who do I need to have thrown in a cell?” Varric joked, his fingers slipping back up to her hair. Maria opened her eyes blearily, took in Varric’s form sitting on the edge of their bed. 

“Hawke?” She yawned, eyes fluttering closed again. “My sister?” 

“Both likely candidates.” He teased softly. “But I meant, where did these roses come from?” 

Oh, the roses. She smirked despite herself, her voice a husky sleep roughened rasp. “Jealous?” 

“An insignificant amount.” His fingers moved from her hair to trace down her arm. “Don’t leave me in suspense. Who’s trying to seduce my wife?” 

“Florist in Lowtown.” Maria mumbled. “I told him they were pretty when we walked past, so he sent them up to the keep.” 

“You went wandering into Lowtown?” She didn’t need to open her eyes again to see Varric’s beaming smile. 

“And I convinced Bran to resign.” She murmured. “Aveline’s actually pleased with me. No telling how long it will last, though.” 

“Well, now I feel bad about waking you in a fit of jealousy. You certainly earned this nap.” 

His voice curled like campfire smoke, awash in good humor. She opened her eyes, fixed them on his beloved face while she stretched as lazily as a cat, woozy from her nap and flushed with something like satisfaction. 

Home, she thought drowsily. The Inquisition had burned, and yet she found her way home. That too, was amazing. 


	38. Absinthe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loves are poisonous. Some loves are miraculous.

_Before you leave,_  
_please know this;_

_I’d rather be the girl_   
_whose name dies at your lips_   
_every time you try to speak of me,_   
_than a girl_   
_you tell stories about_   
_at parties._

_What I’m saying is this,  
darling. _

_I’d rather be your absinthe,  
than your cup of tea. _

**_Absinthe - Nikita Gill_ **

 

Maria turned to examine her profile critically in the mirror, smoothing the long green tunic over the prominent bump in her abdomen. Varric paused, enchanted, in the act of putting his boots on to watch greedily as she smoothed her hand over the rounded curve with her head tipped thoughtfully to the side. She flicked her eyes to his in the mirror, frowning. “How long do you think I can keep hiding this?” 

“Honestly?” Varric considered carefully. “Maybe another month if we keep you out of dresses, but we’re running out of time.” 

Unfortunately, Varric thought it would end up being a bitch to hide Maria away for the last three months of her pregnancy, more than anticipated anyway. The people of Kirkwall were as enamoured with her as he was, constantly begging for scraps of her attention and lighting up under her consideration, both bewitched and charmed. Between that and the blasted projects she had going on at the Gallows… “We’re either going to have to let out you’re away on business somewhere or announce you’re expecting, Princess. Your adoring public isn’t going to stop knocking on the door otherwise.” 

“If I…” Maria began, then stopped, chewing on her lip. It was the same refrain, over and over. If she had her bow, she could fight from a distance, meaning she could _still_ fight if she needed to. Not that Varric had any intention of allowing anyone close enough for that to be a necessity. In four months, she’d be safely delivered and she could do whatever dangerous and reckless things she pleased. Until then, Varric had her back. Still, Maria fretted. If she could fight, people would think twice about coming for her or the baby. She was convinced her reputation as an archer would make _anyone_ pause. 

She was right, of course, which made it all the more difficult.  

In spite of her initial outburst about the crossbow, Varric made Dagna take a look at it, but the Arcanist hadn’t been optimistic. While enthusiastic about the chance to take something apart made by Bianca Davri (overly enthusiastic, in Varric’s opinion), Dagna cautiously reminded him that Bianca was a genius of her own caliber, a completely different caliber than Dagna herself. 

The most intricate parts of Varric’s beloved crossbow, the tiny gears and springs, were made with tools Bianca developed herself. Dagna thought she could replicate them, given enough time, but time wasn’t something anyone had a lot of, particularly when Maria had Danga slaving away on a hundred other things. 

When Beatrix showed back up, as Maria felt assured she inevitably could, he’d ask how Bianca took the news of her mother. It wasn’t a great time to ask for a favor, and Maria wouldn’t be happy, but… 

Before Maria could launch into a fit of ill temper about her missing arm, her face softened and she stroked her fingers up and down her stomach with an awed smile. “Varric, come here.” 

His goddess summoned and he answered, boots still unlaced while he moved like a shadow to Maria’s side, slipping his hands next to her splayed fingers. She moved her hand, pressed firmly on the back of his palm.

Underneath his bare skin, he felt something flutter. Not quite a kick, but a movement like a butterfly beating its wings within a jar. “Can you feel it this time?” Maria teased as their baby bubbled underneath his spread fingers like a hidden laugh. 

“Restless.” He grinned, moving his palm down the line of her stomach. Restless like her mother, a whirl of energy that caught everyone within it. “Why do I get the feeling that I'm going to spend the rest of my life chasing both of you around?” 

“It was your idea, Varric.” Maria reminded him, removing her hand to lightly trace her thumb down his jaw, eyes sparkling with mirth. “I think she’s trying to tell you we’re hungry. You should feed us, post haste.” 

“Anything for my girls.” He swore, pressing a kiss to her forehead and his palm tighter against the quickening child within her womb.  

 

Cole once said that people talked about the Inquisition like it was a person, but it wasn’t even a thing. The poor kid seemed so confused at the time, but Varric had a hell of a time trying to explain it to him. In truth the Inquisition was a person, Maria’s heart and soul embodied by the people she brought together, but it was also an idea. And ideas couldn’t be dismantled, they couldn’t be disbanded. The Inquisition existed, and always would he thought, as long as people remembered Maria stumbling back into their arms after Haven or closing the breach. That memory held it together longer and more concretely than anything else would.

Of course, most of the Inquisition went home. Dorian returned to Tevinter, although he spoke to Maria through their speaking stones nearly every other day. Bull and the Chargers took other jobs and Bull returned, funnily enough, to his old Ben-Hassarath ways, but this time reports landed squarely in Maria’s lap. Cassandra, rebuilding her Seekers, flitted back and forth all over the continent, but arrived back in Kirkwall every few weeks like clockwork. Vivienne resumed her scheming with the mages, but also seemed to dedicate a large amount of time to studying Elven lore and sending detailed notes to Maria. 

Cole stayed, brightly and fiercely protective of Maria, and Thom wouldn’t ever venture further than a day or two away from Varania and Sabina. Sera turned up, when she wished, frequently, mostly because Dagna was safely ensconced at the Gallows with that blighted mirror and her experiments. Rylen showed up too and got to work making the Gallows less of a prison and more… a standing garrison of sorts. Harding even arrived one day in Hightown, wincing as Varric made the inevitable joke before vanishing into the Gallows as well. It ended up chock full of Maria’s people, about twenty-five or thirty of the most loyal soldiers and scouts, all known to Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine long before the Inquisition formed. 

Safe, they thought, from spies. Or at least they hoped. At the very least, it was a group of people willing to make a solid shield wall around their Herald, a barrier in the harbor between Kirkwall and Ferelden and Orlais. Varric couldn’t pretend he wasn’t grateful. 

Still, ground rules were put in place to prevent Maria slipping into old habits of working constantly and rushing into danger, and one of them was definitely being broken. He walked into the bowels of the Gallows, following the path to what he was pretty sure was the old Harrowing chamber, but what had been repurposed into a workshop worthy of Dagna. He could see the two dwarves sitting on a low table, heads together, faces pointed towards the blighted mirror. Varric fought back a sigh. 

“Alright, I made it clear that if anyone started sitting in front of this mirror brooding, I was chucking it into the harbor.” He’d also forbidden blood magic, leaving Daisy alone with it, unscheduled trips through it if they ever got the damn thing open, and made Maria promise on his life, their baby’s, and Beatrix’s that she wouldn’t go dashing off through it until Sunshine was at least nine months old. 

Maria and Dagna both looked at each other, sharing an amused and exasperated grin before waving him into the room. “We’re not brooding over the mirror today, we’re brooding over that.” Maria gestured impotently to the wall beside the mirror.

Blue shapes and symbols, oddly familiar and yet completely foreign, shimmered on the wall like light through water. His wife and Dagna both had scrolls in front of them copying the shapes, Dagna’s writing precise and neat, Maria’s still rather more shaky. On the ground, casting the shapes onto the wall, was the rune Maria brought back from the golem in Bianca’s forge. 

“The rules state no brooding in front of the Eluvian, Princess, regardless of whether or not the Eluvian inspired said brooding.” He crossed his arms over his chest. 

Maria ignored him, tapped her quill against her chin. “We think they’re ancient dwarven. Dagna recognizes a few here and there, but not enough to make any sense of it.” 

“It looks like the Shaperate!” Dagna exclaimed with a sunny grin. “But… like _more_. There’s so much in that rune! It’s like… it’s like a library, but in a rune!” 

“A library full of books we can’t read.” Maria amended. As the women both spoke, the shapes on the wall flickered and changed, a new set replacing the old ones. Maria sighed and rubbed her temple.

“It’s also a bit damaged.” Dagna explained sheepishly. “I think some stuff is unrecoverable, and it kinda… flicks through on its own. I haven’t been able to figure out how to turn the pages myself.” 

“Well, you did pull it out of a crazy golem, Maria.” Varric reasoned. “Can’t assume everything was in working order up there.” 

“I know!” Dagna nearly squealed. “She finds the _best_ stuff!” 

“Dagna says it looks like we may have more lore in this room than the Shaperate has, if we can decipher it.” Maria’s lips twitched, begrudgingly amused. “We’re the proud owners of a large chunk of forgotten Dwarven history now.” 

“Just what I always wanted, Princess.” Varric teased. “You certainly know how to spoil a man.” 

“If only we had somebody from the Shaperate.” Dagna sighed wistfully. “They know some ancient Dwarven, but Orzammar never lets those people go topside.” 

Maria’s quill stopped in midair, the thought flashed through her head at the same time it shot into Varric’s. She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Wasn’t there a suspicious disappearance of someone from the Shaperate before the Exalted Council? Orzammar was trying to cover up a girl who ran away.” 

“Nobody from Orzammar was on Bea’s list.” Varric hedged carefully. “Could Mittens get in and out?” 

“Dust town.” Maria didn’t blink, Varric could see the wheels in her mind spinning rapidly. “There are ways to get in and out of Dust Town that don’t involve the main gate. We used to recruit miners from there, Bea knows how to do it. Springing a Shaper is _risky_ , but it’s not something Bea would shy away from.” 

Wasn’t that the truth. Bea probably relished the challenge. “You think your sister stole a Shaper.” He accused, folding his arms over his chest and smirking. “Truly, the Ancestors are spinning in their graves.” 

“Well, we can certainly ask if she’s got one laying around that we can borrow.” Maria ripped off part of her parchment, took a deep breath and began to carefully, shakily write a note with a determined glare at the hand holding the quill. 

Sweet Andraste, he loved her all the more for watching her struggle and overcome, watching her adapt and thrive no matter where she landed or what happened next. Their daughter, he thought proudly, would have that in her. A spine of steel underneath a bleeding heart. 

“Stop staring.” Maria demanded as if she could feel his eyes lingering on her. 

“Can’t.” Varric admitted. “You’re so beautiful it’s honestly a miracle I get anything accomplished anymore. Aveline’s about to stage a coup because I’m so hopelessly smitten.” 

“Keep talking, Varric, and I’ll tell my sister about the next serial you’re working on.” Maria threatened, smirking down on the parchment. “The clever leader of the thieves’ guild framed for the murder of a Comte? She’ll see through it in a heartbeat.”

Somehow, he really didn’t think Bea would disapprove. 

 

Beatrix Cadash, it turned out, did have a Shaper laying around. One that, apparently, had gotten knocked up by someone Casteless and hadn’t wanted to risk the baby being the wrong gender. A good call, as it turned out, because Bea showed up not just with the young woman in tow but a baby boy. 

Orzammar would have put the poor helpless thing in the Deep Roads and let the deepstalkers have it, a fate that made Varric frankly nauseous. Instead, Hawke got to examine her first dwarven baby up close, her nose wrinkled as she stared into the tiny face. “Maker, he’s small. Are they all that small?” 

“It’s not the size that matters, but how you use it.” Varric huffed indignantly.

“Well, I feel better about Maria not showing as much as I did if this is all she has to make.” Hawke crossed her arms over her chest, satisfied. “Although why she’s so damned tired all the time is beyond me. The baby’s kinda cute though. For a dwarf.” 

“We can’t all be brooding elves, Hawke.” Varric taunted with a wry little smirk. “If we were, you’d never get anything done.” 

“I almost said the world would be a better place, but then it occurred to me that I’m the only one who likes her elves spiky and broody.” Hawke’s eyes glimmered. “So, what do you think my spiky elf would do if I said I wanted another one?” 

“Panic.” Varric advised as the small bundle of blankets began to whine and struggle. He hefted the infant up to his shoulder and hummed a little note. “Let me know if he throws up on this shirt. With immediate cleaning, I could probably salvage it.” 

“You should really start a collection of spit-up stained shirts now, anyway.” Hawke taunted mischievously. 

Varric simply sighed as if exhausted, patting the little creatures back. Hawke stretched in a leisurely, rolling motion and slipped to the window, staring down at Kirkwall spread below them. “I do kind of want another one. I miss Eli that little.” 

“Take it up with your elf, Hawke.” Varric advised sagely. He certainly wouldn’t be helping her brooch the subject. He was kind of terrified to see what kind of trouble Elias got up to the middle he was old enough to realize he had carte blanche in a city that was head over heels in love with Hawke. 

The door opened to his office and Harding strolled in with the newly arrived Shaper. Harding stopped, rocked back on her heels with a sickeningly sweet grin. “Aw, Varric. You look good. Nice and… paternal.” 

“Damn.” Hawke muttered. “I was hoping for spit up before you got back.” 

“Thank you for watching him.” The young woman had dark eyes and that milky white, untouched by sun skin common to Orzammar. She efficiently pulled the baby from his shoulder and grinned into his unbranded face. “Thanks for taking me in, I guess. Wasn’t sure if Cadash ever figured out what she was gonna do with me. Shaperate skills don’t translate out into the surface, unfortunately.” 

“Hey, if you can help decipher whatever that… thing is, Shaper, we’ll be happy.” He paused, considering his words carefully. “If you want the kid’s father out of dust town and up here in Kirkwall...” 

“Blighted bastard is too scared of losing his stone sense.” The woman’s face hardened. “Would rather our son grow up in the slums or worse. I couldn’t bear it and I hope I never see him again.” 

Maybe Varric was just bad at being a dwarf, because the thought of Maria somewhere, alone, with their child… it was enough to give him chills. “Yeah, well, our keep is your keep.” Varric gestured weakly at the space. 

“Good. Wouldn’t want to raise a babe in the Gallows. If any place is cursed…” The woman shuddered, bouncing the boy in her arms. Harding rolled her eyes behind the woman’s shoulder then coughed loudly into her feet. “The Herald went upstairs, her sister said I should fetch you and bring you up.” 

Harding would never change to Viscountess, Varric thought it was some sort of hidden protest against the Exalted Council. “My lady calls, Hawke. Try not to trash my office again.” 

“No promises.” Hawke yawned, collapsed in his desk chair and put her booted feet up on the surface, taking up so much space she almost seemed like she was seven feet tall. Varric glared, but didn’t rise to the bait as he followed Harding out. 

They were nearly up to the study Maria had fully furnished before they heard the shouting. Two female voices spiraling over each other, the words muffled and unclear but the meaning very obvious. “Shit.” Varric muttered, looking over his shoulder back downstairs. 

“You run back down those stairs and leave me to deal with this, I’ll shoot you.” Harding threatened, pushing him forward. “I’m sure it’s fine. Sisters fight.” 

He wished he shared Harding’s sunny optimism, but the voices were growing louder. Without preamble, he pushed the study door in. At the sound of the hinges, both Maria and her sister turned to the door, pinning him with two irate sets of gray eyes. 

“Good.” Maria snapped in his direction, throwing papers on her desk haphazardly. Sheafs of reports floated to the floor in chaos. “You can fucking deal with this.” 

Varric lifted his hands in defense, taking in the red coloring Maria’s whole face, turning her skin the same shade as her hair. “I’ll tie her up, you throw her in the harbor.” Varric offered with a small smile. 

“Don’t you _dare_.” Bea hissed, folding her arms over her chest. “She’s being childish and…” 

“Childish?” Maria repeated, dumbfounded, rounding her glare back to Bea. “Do you have any idea how much effort I’ve put into cleaning up your damn messes and you have the nerve to…” 

“Hey there.” Harding stood beside Varric in the door, but her gaze had drifted from the two spatting sisters to the low couch next to Maria’s bookcase. “Are you the cause of this or unrelated?” 

Varric followed Harding’s gaze, let it land on the oh so familiar figure reclining nonchalantly on Maria’s couch examining her nails. At Harding’s question, Bianca Davri lifted her own set of piercing turquoise eyes and smirked in a way that managed to be both smug and self-deprecating. “The cause.” She answered with a hint of a laugh.

“Bianca.” Shit. Varric rubbed his forehead to try to stave off the splitting headache he immediately felt building. Shit, shit. “Damnit, what are you…” 

“You’re Bianca?” Harding interrupted. She seemed to regret the words as soon as they were out of her mouth as everyone focused their eyes on the poor former scout, but instead of just shutting up, Harding plowed on nervously. Varric wondered if she was even able to stop herself. 

“Right! Of course you are. Her. Bianca.” Harding blathered. “The eyes. You both have… really pretty eyes. And you’re both… all those curves.” 

“Harding!” Maria snapped. Harding flinched at the icy tone. 

“It’s just… a type! Varric has a… a type.” Harding finished lamely. “I… umm…” 

“Oh sweet ancestors, Harding, you’re not helping.” Bea exhaled, rubbing the heel of her palms into both of her eyes. “Please just go.” 

“I’d love to.” Harding squeaked, taking a step back. “If you… umm… need me Inqui...Herald.” 

“I’m leaving too.” Maria declared imperiously. She crossed the room with a remarkable amount of speed, shoving past Varric in the doorway. 

“Maria…” Varric pleaded, turning to try and catch her. She tugged herself free of his seeking fingers before he could find a firm grip, fleeing down the corridor. Varric stared after her, headache growing by the moment. 

“Don’t you chase after her.” Bea ordered hotly, turning her back to the door and kicking Maria’s desk. “She needs to calm her damn tits and then we can talk about this like fucking adults.” 

Oh, he was going to strangle both Beatrix and Bianca. He turned helplessly to Harding, who looked back at him with an expression torn between vindictive amusement and concern. Silent communication passed between the two of them and Harding nodded, turning on her heel to follow Maria. Hopefully, she would be able to prevent any casualties, Maria attempting murder probably wasn’t good for the baby. 

“One question Mittens.” Varric asked pointedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you ever think before doing… I don’t know, anything?” 

“I do!” Bea protested viciously, slinging her blades from her back onto Maria’s desk haphazardly, scattering more papers. “I think about _her_ and how she’s not going to stop doing crazy dangerous things because _she_ thinks it’s her sole responsibility to fix the damn world…” 

“The noble ones are always the worst.” Bianca sighed in shared exasperation. Varric glared at her and held up one finger. 

“Wait your turn and I’ll get to how reckless and…” Varric started, but Bea didn’t stop talking, continuing on her rant as she slung a belt full of tiny vials onto the desk as well. 

“I’m thinking that she’s an _archer_ and she always will be! Just because she’s not likely to slice her hand open doesn’t mean she should be dancing around waving pointy objects in the air…” Bea continued, frustration mounting as she continued to get comfortable like she had no plans to leave. A rather hopeful stance given that the office she was sitting in belonged to her sister. “And if she plans on continuing to be a fucking hero and not a dead fucking hero, she needs to see some damn sense and stop acting like an idiot. So yes, Varric, I _am_ thinking. I’m thinking that the best smith  in Thedas owed me a hell of a favor and…” 

“I told you that she wouldn’t appreciate the surprise.” Bianca laughed, shook her head. Bea tossed her dark hair over her shoulder in aggravation and pulled a blade out of her boot, pointing it at Bianca in a matter more demonstrative than threatening, gesticulating wildly as she continued to rant. 

“And I’d have loved to tell her! But she’s too damn proud to take any help from you because you two…” She swung the knife between Varric and Bianca. “Used to smash your fun bits together.” 

“And to think, we’re both respectable, married people now.” Bianca teased with a sly smile. Bea groaned and flopped into Maria’s chair mumbling under her breath about Bianca not helping the situation. 

“You’re the least convincing dead woman I’ve ever met.”  Varric crossed his arms over his chest and glared daggers down at the woman reclining on Maria’s couch. Bianca tipped her head up, eyes glimmering with…

Something like reckless joy, the way she looked _ages_ ago when they snuck into Bartrand’s guild dinner. In fact, she looked more vibrant than she’d looked in years, the shadows under her eyes gone, the tiny wrinkles near the corners still present, but twisted up instead of down. “This suits you, Varric.” Bianca waved her hand in a broad gesture to encompass the entire room. “Viscount of Kirkwall, though? What _were_ they thinking?” 

“Ran out of options, I expect.” Varric deflected. It did elicit a small chuckle from Bea even as she cradled her face in her hands. 

“Sorry about my mum.” Bianca shrugged, awkward and tense, letting her gaze fall from his. “I’d say she didn’t mean it, but… well, we’re way past believing that by the sixth assassination attempt and the second kidnapping.” 

“Sorry she died.” He lowered his voice, coughed into his sleeve. “You know, I think… I think she did love you in her twisted, shitty way. She wanted to see you again.” 

“If I set foot in Orlais again, it’ll be too soon.” Bianca laughed lightly, letting her eyes scan the study. Varric could see all the traces of Maria reflected in Bianca’s gaze, from the neat stack of cards on one table to the mug of cider balanced precariously on top of a stack of history books. But her eyes stuck to one tiny, insignificant item folded over the back of the chair where Bea sat. 

It was a gift from Sera, a hand-knitted blanket made of the softest, creamiest wool Varric ever felt, just the perfect size for an infant. 

Varric winced. “Bianca…” 

He didn’t know what he was going to say, but honestly, sometimes he was at his best that way. Bianca beat him to the punch, smiling wistfully. “I’m glad she didn’t die, you know. I thought I wouldn’t care much either way, but when I heard the rumors… well, I hated to think of you broken-hearted again. If I can help keep her alive for you… well, I should, shouldn’t I?” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Bianca. You weren’t entirely wrong about me ruining your life.” He failed her, forced her to throw her carefully planned life into chaos. If he hadn’t been so selfish… 

“Don’t apologize.” Bianca frowned, pursed her lips in thought. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, Varric. Rivain’s good for that. Nothing around for miles except the beach and the ocean. You were… you were the first person to actually see me for more than just gold and silver. If it hadn’t been for you all those years ago…” 

“And now I feel awkward…” Bea muttered, sinking into the chair further. 

“Go away then.” Bianca directed, making a shooing motion. 

“I’d love to, but I’m still a wanted murderer thanks to present company.” Bea shot back. Bianca rolled her eyes and refocused on Varric. 

“I thought I could do anything, build anything, _be_ anything when I was with you. It was the only time I’d ever felt like that and… I missed that woman Varric. You were the only one who still remembered her after... after I married Bogdan. And that’s why I couldn’t let you go.”

Bianca stood fluidly from the couch, eyes blazing. “But I remember it now, the way it felt to… be a smith, to build the things I wanted to build, to tinker with things just for the love of it. It’s who I was meant to be and I couldn’t give it up for you. I couldn’t let my family take it away either, I just…” 

Bianca swallowed hard, shifted her eyes to Bea’s slumped form in the chair and lowered her voice. “If that obnoxious and annoying creature over there wouldn’t have offered to get me out, I don’t know what I’d have done, Varric. I owe Beatrix Cadash for saving my life, I owe Maria for fixing my mistake at Vallamar, and I owe you for… for everything I put you through.” 

“I can still hear you.” Bea grumbled. 

“Let me make it right, Varric.” Bianca pleaded, reaching a tentative hand out to rest on his shoulder. “Convince her to let me help, I swear neither of you will regret it. I can’t make her a whole new arm, but I can make her a bow. You know I can.” 

 

He spotted Cole before he saw Maria. The evenings were growing colder, but both of them were out in the garden, Cole’s head resting against Maria’s knees as they leaned against one of the great oak trees. Maria herself had her head against the bark, eyes closed. Exhausted again, he thought grimly. Maria rarely took herself to bed when the urge to sleep overwhelmed her, instead she dropped wherever she happened to run out of energy. 

“She’s sad.” Cole whispered, straightening as Varric approached. “Broken. Scarred. Scared.” 

“She’s got nothing to worry about, Kid.” Varric muttered, dropping to a crouch beside the pair. 

“I know. So does she. Angry and ashamed. She feels lots of things loudly.” Cole very gently, shyly, reached out and touched Maria’s stomach through her shirt with a tentative smile. Varric cocked his head to the side inquisitively. 

“Kid, you can’t feel anything from Sunshine yet, can you?” He asked, disbelieving and frankly, a bit delighted. 

“Love.” Cole continued to smile as if everything was right in the world. “She loves, the sound of her voice. Yours. Laughter, warmth and love.” 

“Cole?” Maria murmured, shifting slightly. Wisps of her hair stuck to the tree and she shivered in the cold breeze. 

“C’mon Princess. Let’s get you inside and warm.” Varric let his fingers curl around both her shoulders, the cotton of her blouse chilled against his calloused skin. Maria opened her gray eyes, frowned up at him, opened her mouth  as if to argue. “I swear on Andraste herself, I will carry you the whole way up to our bedroom if I have to.” 

A flicker of amusement danced at the corner of her lips. “That’s a lot of steps, Varric. You’re not as young as you used to be.” 

Rather than dignify that jibe with a retort, he slipped one muscled arm under her thighs and snaked the other around her back. She laughed, breathless as he hoisted her into the air, swatting him ineffectually with the palm of her hand. “Put me down.” She demanded.

“You called me old. That’s hurtful, Maria.” He feigned a playfully injured expression, winking at Cole as the kid scrambled up from the ground. 

“This is _unacceptable_ behavior.” Maria complained, voice laced with mirth. “What will people say when they see the Viscount carting his wife around like a common peasant?” 

“They’ll be too busy swooning.” He reasoned, pushing open the library doors with his shoulder. “I may have to deal with fainting ladies left and right begging me to carry them. Alas, I’ll have to disappoint by informing them I only carry _one_ stubborn woman around.” 

“And the crossbow.” Maria pointed out quietly, turning her chilled face to his shoulder. Varric sighed heavily, sitting her carefully on one of the first tables he came across. Maria gripped his fingers in hers before he could pull away completely, eyes lowered to their joined hands. “Are they still here?” 

“Your sister is upstairs.” Varric covered their hands with his other one, trying to warm up her frozen fingers. “Making a mess in your office.” 

“Bianca?” Maria asked quietly. 

“I sent her to the Gallows to see if she likes that forge well enough to get started making you a bow you can use.” Varric answered calmly, holding her fingers still as she tried to wrench away. “Maria, you have nothing to be jealous of. I love you, beautiful. Only you, always you, for the rest of my life.” 

“She looks good.” He couldn’t see Maria’s eyes, but he could feel the glare scorching his knuckles. “Really good, Varric.” 

“And she’s working for the fun of it again. I’m happy for her, but I’m more ecstatic that she’s agreed to outfit you with a weapon that’ll keep you coming home for me and Sunshine when you decide to go after Solas.” Varric removed his one hand, rested it on Maria’s shoulder instead. “As usual, Bea went in with the delicacy of a charging druffalo, but she isn’t wrong.” 

“She looks like the kind of woman you’d fall in love with.” Maria whispered softly. “Brilliant. Two arms. Pretty eyes.” 

“Married to someone else. Selfish and reckless.” Varric countered with a weary sigh. “Bitter enemies with my best friend. Demanding.”

“Maker, Varric, how do you talk about me when I’m not around?” Maria asked sharply. 

“You’re as brilliant as she is, easily.” Varric smiled, softly tracing the slope of Maria’s shoulder. “And stronger by far, because you’ve been hurt and beaten, but you keep rising. Even after everything you’ve been through, you’re… one of the most compassionate people I know. You’re quick to anger, quicker to forgive, witty, charming, and so damn selfless it makes me want to pull my hair out.” He teased. 

He felt her give into his soft touches before she looked up, gray eyes seeking and searching. “Do you still love her? Even a bit?” Maria asked, a sharp jagged edge of fear in her swirling eyes. 

Bianca was the bottle of poison he’d spent years drinking, both of them shredding each other to pieces on the broken rocks of their doomed relationship. She was his first love, the woman who made him the man he was. 

She was the story she couldn’t tell. Only pieces that broke out to the people who mattered most when his heart needed to have them heard. She was the thing that died on his lips. 

“Yes.” He answered softly. “And I love you more. The same way you still love Fynn Dunhark, and you always will. I just have the easier ghost to live with because if he shows up, we’ve got bigger problems.” 

“Fynn told me _you_ were the great love of my life.” Maria argued hotly. 

“And you’re mine. Bianca knows that.” He promised. Perhaps, Bianca’s forge and her work had always been her great love,  maybe that was why she looked like she’d finally come home to herself after all this time. Varric tipped Maria’s chin up and brought his lips so close to hers the words he spoke felt like a kiss themselves. “I swear to the Maker, Andraste, all my Ancestors, and everyone else listening, Princess, there will never be anyone else after you. I couldn’t live through letting you go the way I lived through losing Bianca, so do an old man a favor and take the damn offer of help so I don’t worry myself into an early grave.” 

Rather than respond, Maria lurched forward, closing the tiny distance between their mouths in a kiss that took his breath away. He was in her thrall, he thought blissfully as her tongue captured his. And he couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be. 

“Alright then.” Maria closed her eyes while she pulled away, let her tongue dart out to wet her kiss swollen lips as if she was chasing the taste of him. “Alright, Varric. We’ll do it your way.”


	39. Unlocking the Eluvians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anchor was a key, it could open or close.

She hated that her last social event before her self-imposed exile was going to be the  _ fucking _ Merchant’s Guild and one of their dinners. The only good part of the situation was the Bea seemed to be having the time of her life inspecting all the fine silk dresses, the expensive jewelry, fur shawls. Her calloused, sea roughened fingers pulled strands of pearls up and out of leather cases, holding them up to the light with a dazzling grin.

“Don’t let any of them fall into your pocket, Bea.” Maria warned with an edge of fondness as she examined her reflection critically in the mirror. She kept a close eye on Bea’s reflection.  “Most of these technically belong to Kirkwall.” 

“They belong to the Viscountess.” Bea dropped the pearls and fixed on a gold chain studded with rubies, picking up the heavy stones and tossing them in the air. “And  _ you’re _ the Viscountess. Ancestors, I wish I could drag you up to Ostwick right in front of the Guild Hall in all of this just to…” 

“Rub their noses in it?” Maria asked with a raised eyebrow. Bea grinned, only semi-apologetic. 

“Just a little. Wear these, they match your hair.” Bea pushed the crimson stones out with a grin almost as bright as the stones. 

“I have a necklace on.” She pointed out, touching her sapphire and opal marguerites with her bare fingertips, reassuring herself that it was still in place over her heart. 

“You wear that one all the time.” Bea whined, holding up fistfuls of jewelry indignantly. “Wear something different or I’m going to start stealing them.” 

“I’ll have Aveline throw you in the cells.” 

“Isabela knows how to get out of them.” 

Maria laughed, shook her head and held out her hand with an indulgent smile. “Pick out earrings that match the necklace I have on and I’ll wear them.” 

Bea sighed, resigned as she began to dig through the cases and jewels. She tore her eyes away from her labor for just a moment to sweep across Maria’s shoulders. She watched the glimmer of satisfaction grown in Bea’s eyes in the mirror and turned to meet her sister’s smiling eyes. “What are you up to?” She asked. 

“This is where you always should have been.” Bea wrinkled her nose, gesturing with one of the jewelry cases to the cozy bedroom she shared with Varric. “At the top of the world instead of slumming it with the rest of us.” 

“Bea…” Maria frowned, but Bea just shook her head, holding up one of the jewelry cases in a placating manner. 

“No, I don’t mean it badly. Or even to tease you,  _ Princess _ .” Bea smirked and Maria scowled, picking up one of her hair brushes threateningly. “You just… belong up here. You look good, you look happy, and you’ll… you’ll make it better for the people down there.” 

“Is that a genuine compliment coming out of your mouth?” Maria faked a shiver. “I think Thedas just froze over.” 

“You’re still a noble  _ ass _ who stumbles into trouble like a blind, drunk nug.” Bea continued fondly, dropping her eyes back to the case in her hand and pushing it out to Maria. “These ones, then. If you insist on never taking that silly Orlesian thing off.” 

Maria dropped her hair brush and reached for the leather case, opening it with a roll of her eyes. Nestled inside the case was a pretty set of sapphire earrings, cleverly fashioned into sprays of teardrops that fell from her ears. But between them…

She snapped her eyes back to Bea’s hand, taking in the gold ring circling one of her fingers, a twin for the one slipped between the two earrings. “I missed your last two birthdays.” Bea shrugged with half a smile. “But that was  _ expensive _ , so I think it makes up for it.” 

“It’s not…” Her throat felt tight with emotion. Bea shook her head immediately, twisting the gold signet ring on her own finger, the one Zarra Cadash once wore every day no matter what she did. 

“No.” Bea looked a bit ashamed, lowering her eyes to her fingers. “I… I know it’s silly and it should have been yours, but…” 

“It fits you better than it fit me. It was always a bit tight.” She wouldn’t begrudge Bea hanging onto the ring, she earned it fair and square. Besides, Maria had more jewelry now than she knew what to do with.  _ She _ was also the one who’d had their parents wedding rings for years. “You should have it.” 

“I had that one made for you in Antiva. You can’t keep using Varric’s ring to seal stuff, you should have your own.” Bea pushed an errant curl behind her ear impatiently. “Look at it.” 

She focused her attention on the pretty gold ring, the three interlocking triangles of the Cadash clan, but in the center, Andraste’s burning eye pierced with a blade, cut with an exquisite amount of detail for something so small. The guild would  _ hate _ the imagery, a human religion emblazoned on a Dwarven crest. 

It was perfect. She maneuvered the ring out of the box and slipped it on with a surprising amount of agility (she wouldn’t admit she was getting better at being one-handed, but the evidence was stacking up to contradict her.) She slipped it on right above the thin gold band with two small diamonds inset into it, the ring symbolizing her wild, runaway marriage, a match to a similarly plain golden one on Varric’s hand. 

“They’ll hate it.” She couldn’t help the small, rebellious smile that belonged to a younger girl from slipping onto her face, but the glinting mischief in Bea’s eyes matched it perfectly. 

“Good.” She stated with a relish, collapsing back on the bed amongst all the jewelry. “Wear that dress that shows off your tits too, so Varric can at least have a little fun and you’ll both properly scandalize them.” 

 

“We’ve made good, steady progress on getting all those blighted statues down, my lady.” Rylen reported evenly as he tied the small boat to the Gallows dock. “Dagna melted most of them down, thank Andraste herself. Thought they were all looking at me.” 

“And the bars off the windows?” Maria pushed herself heavily up from the bench, one hand bracing her stomach. The baby kicked unhappily and she scowled down at  her abdomen. Two more months, she thought pointedly. Then the little thing was getting evicted no matter how comfy she’d gotten. 

“All but the highest ones. Dagna has some… interesting ideas about how to get up there.” Rylen’s face went pale with dread. 

“Keep her in check, Captain.” Maria teased. “I know if anyone can…” 

“I’m not sure anyone can, but we try.” Rylen admitted heavily in his Starkhaven burr. Varric and Maria shared an amused look while Varric clambered out of the boat before turning and holding his arms out for her. He grunted as he swung her down, depositing her on the docks with a weary sigh of his own.

“I thought you said you weren’t getting old?” She laughed, affectionately cupping his stubbled cheek with her hand. 

“You’re not getting lighter, Princess.” He complained, rubbing his shoulder in a manner too dramatic to be anything but an exaggeration. Still, she hit him in that shoulder  _ just  _ hard enough to cause a real wince.  

“Do you want to see how deep this harbor is? Because you’re about to find out.” She threatened without any real heat. Varric adopted a wounded expression. 

“The father of your own child?” He asked, slipping his arm around her waist. “That’s cold, Princess.” 

“Quizzie!” 

Before Maria could even look, she was engulfed in a tangle of long, skinny limbs. Sera wasn’t quite strong enough to haul Maria into the air, but the elf certainly tried her damnedest, knocking Varric aside impatiently in her hurry to wrap Maria up in her own little tornado. “Come look see, ya? It’s  _ so  _ good! Winchy, but good! You’ll be shooting arseface right in his arseface in no time…” 

Sera’s arms pressed too tightly against Maria’s abdomen and the baby kicked as if alarmed, startling Sera and sending her flying comically back as she glared suspiciously down at Maria’s abdomen. To sneak out of the keep, her and Varric had donned long dark cloaks, but the friendly assault had ripped Maria’s opened and exposed the prominent bulge of her stomach. 

“I know.” Maria moaned, rubbing her face in exasperation. “I’m…”

“Big as a  _ house! _ ” Sera exclaimed. “Ready to pop?” 

“Little less than two months.” Varric couldn’t contain his broad grin or his overwhelming excitement. “You should come see the nursery, Buttercup.” 

Maria thought that inviting Sera to the nursery was a  _ terrible _ idea, topped only by blood magic and a demon nanny, but before she could voice her concerns Harding was at the top of the steps, hands shoved in her pockets and a smile on her face. “I thought you’d make it yesterday, Inquisitor.” 

“Couldn’t sneak out.” Maria responded, pushing her hood down and beginning to climb the steps. “Aveline’s people were all over the back entrances for a training drill. Don’t ask.”

The amount of noise the guards had made all day had been enough to make her summon Aveline and actually  _ plead _ for the woman to keep it down. As soon as Maria didn’t have her little passenger, she fully intended on paying Aveline back for it twice as much. She hoped the guard captain enjoyed having temporary free reign. 

“Well, I wish I could say she’s been waiting impatiently. Instead, she went over and started peppering Dagna with questions. Bit frightened of what the two of them are going to get up to, especially when I saw all that fire essence Dagna ordered getting carted up to the forge…” 

That was a bit alarming. “Well, at least this place has already survived a couple fires.” Maria started optimistically.

“So far.” Harding added with a grin. “C’mon. Let’s go pry them apart before we really start testing how solid the Gallows really is.” 

 

Dagna’s workshop was a disaster of strewn items, discarded hazardous materials, and scattered tools. The three dwarves in front of them had shoved the Eluvian back into the corner and covered it with a cloth while they fussed around with some kind of machine on the floor. It was Dagna who noticed them first, looking up with a sunny smile and a cheerful wave. “Hey! You’re just in time!” 

“Dare I ask in time for what?” There were a lot of suspiciously empty vials she thought used to contain rune crafting elements. 

“We figured out a way! To read the rune!” Dagna said brightly. “The Shaper can’t read them fast enough, and we can’t control the way it goes, so…” 

“This might.” Bianca stepped away from the device on the ground with a satisfied nod. “The golem you pulled it out of...well, it supplied power to the rune. Dagna was trying to decipher it without a power source.” 

“Runes are their own power source!” Dagna argued, more out of habit than real feeling, because at the annoyed look from Bianca, Dagna simply shrugged. “Well, normally.” 

“I should have thought. The Shaperate is powered by the lava flows, but…” The Shaper admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t think about it until she reminded us.” 

“So, we built a lava flow!” Dagna beamed. “A renewable, reusable one!” 

If Aveline found out she had dwarves building artificial lava flows in the Gallows, Maria was going to be in for it. Maria made a mental note to keep Aveline away from the building as long as possible. 

“Theoretically, we built a renewable, reusable lava flow.” Bianca corrected with a tiny little smirk down at the contraption on the ground. Now that Maria examined it closer, she could see the warm glow of flames from within the metal.

“We’ve been working on it all night!” Dagna nearly squealed, shifting from one foot to the other. “This will be the first real test!” 

Varric winced and smoothly inserted himself between Maria and the machine which made her roll his eyes at his broad back. “I  _ really _ don’t like the idea of being here for the trial run.” 

“Stop being such a worrier.” Bianca teased with that knowing grin of hers, the one that made something in Maria want to go hit a wall. “This isn’t the most dangerous thing I’ve ever built.” 

“It’s not even in my top ten!” Dagna protested. 

“This  _ is _ probably the most dangerous thing I’ve been involved with.” The Shaper mused, tipping her head to the side. Maria couldn’t help it, she laughed and shook her head, shrugging carelessly in Dagna’s direction. 

“Turn it on then.” She instructed, despite Varric’s exhausted sigh. The look he sent her was starkly disapproving. 

“I think you’re missing the thrill of danger.” He accused, brushing his fingers lightly down her side. And… well, maybe he was right. She  _ knew _ she had no business even thinking about battles or exploring unknown ruins, not with her due date rapidly approaching, not while she was still learning to exist with one arm. 

But she missed the adventure. She  _ always _ missed the adventure. She missed the sun on her face and the dust of the road. She craved the sea salt and stormy winds. She wanted to hear her footsteps echo in distant, old places again. 

Yes, she had a mission, she  _ needed  _ to stop Solas, but her heart demanded the thrill regardless, the same way it always did. A challenge to prove she was better, faster, stronger, more clever… 

She flashed an apologetic smile at Varric and shrugged helplessly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a look she didn’t like at all flick across Bianca’s face. One that almost verged on the edge of sympathy. It was a conscious effort not to harden the smile on her face, but to wait patiently as Dagna flipped the switch.

The machine on the floor clicked, then cast a watery blue light over the room, the runes shimmering and flickering on every available surface. Up on the vaulted ceiling, climbing the walls, shimmering on the ground, dancing over their own skin. They all held their breath as they examined the stable shapes. “Well.” The Shaper began. “That’s better.” 

It was actually kind of beautiful. Maria reached out without thought as if she could cup the light in her palm. She bit her lip to hide her amusement as she studied Varric’s serious face from under her lashes. “I think I can survive a light show, Varric.” 

She spoke too soon. Something cracked in the machine and the light flickered, steam escaping from one of the valves in hot, humid clouds that curled her hair and moistened her face. Maria coughed, more in surprise than anything else and Varric swore as a small fire flickered to life at the base of the machine. With a quick, efficient movement Bianca began to disconnect parts while Dagna poured water on the flames.

“Well.” Bianca rocked back on her heels with half a smile. “I’ve had worse first runs. Remember that time…” 

“Yes.” Varric answered immediately. “I was picking splinters out of my ass for months.” 

“Less fire essence? Oh! Maybe we can use dragon’s blood as a stabilizing agent…” 

“Dragon’s blood? Stabilizing?” Bianca echoed. 

“If you mix it with glands from a giant spider…” Dagna turned back to her materials thoughtfully. Bianca crossed her arms under her chest with a shake of her head that Maria had seen many times in relation to Dagna. It was a gesture that said she was either mad or brilliant. 

Maybe both. Most likely both. 

“While she works on better ways to make things explode…” Bianca brushed a loose piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “I need to do another first test. Less chance of explosions, well, unless we’re counting Varric’s head.” 

Maria felt her palms begin to sweat, but she nodded. “Let’s see it then.” 

 

She didn’t know what she expected when she saw the crossbow, but it wasn’t the complicated surge of emotions she felt. At first, a bit of nausea because it  _ wasn’t _ her bow, it would never be  _ her _ bow. But there was also a shine of admiration, the lines of her crossbow seemed more graceful, curving more obviously that Varric’s. She wondered if it was a design choice, or if it was because Bianca obviously needed to use lighter materials. There were spots for runes of her own, a blade that flipped from the inside with a flick of her thumb, the place for the bolt that pulled in others ready to go in a chamber beneath.

“It won’t pack as much of a punch as Varric’s.” Bianca tapped her fingers impatiently on the bench while Maria examined the crossbow. “But if your aim is good enough, it won’t matter.”

Her aim had been perfect. And that, that lingering fear of failure, was the other thing she couldn’t count on. She’d been the best archer she knew, hands down. Maybe she didn’t pack the power of Varric and Bianca, and she certainly wasn’t as flashy as Sera, but she was perfect nearly every single time. But this was different, unknown. 

She remembered the bolt fired from Varric’s crossbow slamming into the trunk, the elation of knowing she’d shot it, before the bitter flood of emotions that made her slam Bianca back into his arms. It was different, and terrifying, and it was the only damn way forward. 

“Alright.” Maria wiped her hands on her cloak and nodded. Bianca handed over the weapon without another word and Maria gripped it with her one free hand. The wood felt smooth under her fingers, the leather grip sturdy. The weight seemed right, not too heavy, not too light. She shifted it experimentally, letting her fingers brush the trigger. 

She didn’t want an audience for this, but she seemed to have garnered one anyway. Sera and Dagna sat, canoodling, under one of the columns. Rylen leaned casually against the wall. Harding set up the target in the courtyard and paced back and forth by it as if she were an outlet for Maria’s nervous energy and Varric stood behind her, unusually quiet. 

“Nothing’s ever perfect the first time.” Bianca cautioned. “So let’s try to keep the histrionics to a minimum?”

She was going to slap the woman. To prevent herself from doing it right at that moment, Maria turned to the target with a determined expression, her heart somewhere in her throat. It would work, or it wouldn’t work, she reminded herself. Either way, there was another path. They’d find it, they always did. 

Fynn’s blade still hung at her waist like a promise and her baby rolled within her, the past and future caught in one moment while Maria raised the crossbow and aimed carefully. 

The first shot went wide, just catching the edge of the target. Maria could feel her heartbeat in her very fingertips as the bolt shattered against the stone wall and Harding frowned at the bow in Maria’s hand like it was at fault. But it wasn’t. The bow did what it was supposed to, Maria felt it. The problem was her, she was…

She was thinking about it too hard. Maria nearly laughed and looked over her shoulder as she heard another bolt roll into place. Varric had his hands crossed over his chest, studying her with his face an inscrutable mask, but it was Bianca that Maria looked at. “Can I try again?” 

“Please do. That was a shitty shot.” Bianca waved her arm expansively in a gesture that seemed to say ‘what are you waiting for?’ Maria couldn’t even argue, it had been a shitty shot. She took another breath, let it fill up her lungs, waited for the space of one even heartbeat before she let it out and raised the bow again.

It wasn’t a perfect shot, but nothing was ever perfect the first try. Even as the bolt loosed, Maria saw what she’d done wrong. She wasn’t compensating for the small kickback, more used to her arm bearing the brunt of the force than her shoulder, but the bolt still flew and imbedded itself within a solid two inches of the center of the target.

In the silence, Maria heard another bolt rattle smoothly into the slot. Then Sera and Dagna cheered and Harding beamed, Rylen clapped enthusiastically. Maria nearly laughed in relief, turning her smile onto Varric behind her.

But she moved too quickly for Varric to hide the surge of dark fear that flicked across his features, a mixture of sorrow and worry too deep to fathom. Her smile dropped immediately, but she tightened her grip on the bow as his name slipped out, part question, part plea. The smile he plastered on didn’t fool her, nor did it fool the bright, inquisitive eyes of Bianca Davri. She was frowning at him as well in a way that reminded Maria of a teacher about to scold an unruly student.

“You look good, Princess.” Varric flattered. “Ready to go riding out into danger.” The unsaid word ‘again’ echoed in the space between them. Always, Maria thought morosely. She’d always leave him like this, in his city, in his home, with their baby, waiting with fear in his eyes for her to come back. 

“Varric…” She said his name again, and she hoped there was enough in that one beloved name to convey everything she felt. “I always come back, don’t I?” 

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “So far.” He admitted, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I just… I need some air.” 

He turned on his heel and left her holding her crossbow, surrounded by the excited grins of her people who didn’t know Varric well enough to know he wasn’t okay. Except for… 

“He’ll never learn.” Bianca Davri didn’t meet her eyes while she examined her fingernails instead. “He half-hoped you’d hate it and decide to stay here, safe and sound, the rest of your life.” 

She didn’t want to admit Bianca was right. She didn’t want to admit that even if it didn’t work, she’d still go. She’d always go. She had to follow her heart, her guts, the pounding between her ribs calling her onwards. 

She’d always come back too, which was the key difference between her and Bianca Davri, but Maria didn’t say it. She didn’t need to.

 

_ The letters on the papers she held in front of her eyes blurred, shifted, spun backwards and forwards. Maria blinked, trying to steady them, but they refused to be corralled into any sort of proper order. A crow cawed from somewhere nearby, maybe from outside the balcony doors, the mountains around them displaying snow white capped peaks. Maria put the papers down on her desk and dragged herself over to the balcony, looking down at Skyhold sprawling below her.  _

_ Not real. She’d gotten good at determining what wasn’t real. She’d fallen asleep then, again, probably right at her desk trying to decipher the scribbled notes of her Shaper.  _

_ The runes said that dwarves could access the fade, once. Although why they no longer could was a mystery still waiting to be deciphered. Maria snorted in exasperation, leaning against the railing and feeling the cold wind blow against her pale skin. The fade, she thought irritably, wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. _

_ Although here, she always had two arms, albeit with the anchor glowing green in her right palm like a reminder of pain and suffering. Here, she wasn’t too pregnant to see her own feet. Here… _

_ It was nice to see Skyhold again, she could admit that. Giselle said they’d turn it into a refuge, a place for pilgrims, but it would always be hers. Always.  _

_ Her breath turned to smoke in the air and she smiled, making her way back into her room, past the ornate Orlesian bed, down the stairs Varric carried her up more than once, slipping into the great hall.  _

_ She expected to see all of them. She always saw all of them when she dreamed of Skyhold. She could count on descending the stairs to find them hands deep in a card game with her spot open, Cullen already shirtless, Varric grinning and motioning for someone to bring her favorite ale. This time, there was nobody.  _

_ Except, on second glance, there was. In the rotunda, Maria saw a light flicker. The glow of someone working by lamplight into the night. She knew who it was. She knew immediately that this wasn’t her dream, she’d been sitting at her desk worrying about Solas, and then… _

_ Then she found him, the same way she’d found Chantal.  _

_ Her bow, the one that broke in the Crossroads, was in her hands in a moment as she stalked forward, leaning too casually against the open door frame and peering in. Directly in front of her, his back presenting a long, clean line, Solas sat cross legged on the floor with his paints beside him. The mural, the one he never finished in reality, was almost done. There was a wolf looming over a dragon, the head of the beast impaled by the sword.  _

_ “Am I the dragon or the sword?” She asked bitterly. It would be good to know, after all.  _

_ Solas didn’t drop his paint brush, although the way he clenched it tighter was almost more satisfying. He also didn’t turn to her. “Be gone.” He whispered harshly. “It is wrong for any of you to wear her face. She does not deserve that.”  _

_ “Demons haunting you, Solas?” She asked mildly, stepping into the rotunda, the green light from her palm illuminating a small circle around her. “Did you think leaving me alive would ease the guilt?”  _

_ This made him look, made him examine her closely. Slowly, he unfolded his lanky frame from the floor and stood, frowning in displeasure. “It is you. You should not be here.”  _

_ “Solas.” She couldn’t keep the exasperation out of her voice, opening her arms wide. “When have I ever been where I was supposed to be?”  _

_ He didn’t quite laugh, but a small corner of his smile lifted up, twitched briefly. “You continue to shock and amaze.”  _

_ “You’re in my castle.” She accused, hardening her eyes and her voice.  _

_ “In fact, you are in mine.” He pointed out, gesturing expansively as if to encompass the whole fade. “I trust you are well, my lady Viscountess. Varric must be pleased.”  _

_ “I’ve been busy.” She traced her fingers over the murals as she walked the perimeter of the room. Redcliffe, Haven, Adamant…  _

_ “I have heard.” Solas narrowed his eyes, watching her suspiciously as she strolled. “I have been told you are dangerous. That it would have been better for our cause if you perished in the Crossroads, Maria Cadash. I have been told you will not stop, that you will gather power to you and block us at every turn.”  _

_ “You knew I would.” Maria couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. It was obvious to everyone who knew her. “You could give up, Solas. Come home before you actually hurt anyone.”  _

_ “And you would forgive me?” Solas’s smile grew pointed, a wolf’s smile in a man’s face. At least she knew to call a wolf a wolf now.  _

_ “I don’t know.” She admitted. “But we could live in peace, Solas.” A fragile, tentative peace, but maybe it would be enough to save the world from breaking open on her child’s head.  _

_ “And still, that is the name you would call me.” Solas sighed. “The only one who does.”  _

_ “It’s your name, isn’t it?” Maria taunted, crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest. “The one the whole world forgot.” The world forgot, but she didn’t. She’d never forget that the Dread Wolf was just a man, she’d seen him bleed and sweat. Gods didn’t do those things.  _

_ “They will not remember yours either.” He prophesied darkly. “They will remember you all wrong as well.”  _

_ Maybe, but one thing was for sure, every time they told his story, they’d be telling hers as well. Every time they began to spin hers, by campfire or at child’s bedside, he’d be woven into the tale. They’d never be free of each other.  _

_ “I cannot give up.” Solas turned back to the mural, cold and resigned. “And you have no power to stop me. Even if you still possess enough of my magic to control this world, to open the gates, it will not help you.”  _

_ Maria’s temper flared, the anchor snapping painlessly in her palm and illuminating the rotunda. The murals shifted seamlessly, no longer the scenes Solas painted, but figures from Maria’s life. A portrait of Bea on the bow of a boat, Dorian extending his hand to a figure on the ground, Bull tearing at broken chains, Cole sheltering a nug with his hat, Cassandra reading a book under a tree, Sera and Dagna dancing in the Gallows courtyard…  _

_ All of them. They were all there, and at the very center, a quill piercing a golden heart held aloft in his hands, a crown of marguerites on his head, Varric.  _

_ “This is my castle.” Maria whispered dangerously. “And it always will be.” And Solas was just one more old man looking down his nose at her as if she’d be nothing, but Maria Cadash knew better. She always had.  _

 

She woke up with parchment stuck to her cheek and drool on her chin, but she was awake like she’d been struck by lightning. She nearly ripped the parchment tearing it off her skin when she staggered up, reaching for a cloak without a second thought. Thoughts were churning too quickly in her mind, a whirlpool tugging at every bit of stray thought.

Dwarves had access to the fade, but lost it. 

Maria still possessed enough magic to control the fade. 

To  _ open the gates _ .

She was out the door in a second, down the stairs of their chambers, almost staggering into Cole’s arms. “I need a boat.” The words tripped out of her mouth as she held onto Cole’s coat. “I need…” 

“Yes.” Cole nodded seriously. “To go to the Gallows and unlock the doors.” 

 

She didn’t expect it to work. The mad dash down to the docks with just a note scrawled hurriedly to Varric explaining where she was going (but not why), the boat ride to the Gallows in the fading afternoon light, the climb up the steps, she was plagued with doubt. It was just a dream, the fade lied. 

“Inquisitor?” Harding, Maker bless her, didn’t seem perturbed to see her alone, unannounced, red hair gleaming in the evening sun as she jumped off the ship. If she didn’t hurry, she’d end up having to spend the night at the Gallows and Varric would never let her live it down. 

She liked that Harding still called her Inquisitor, as if she saw the bones beneath her skin that still had Inquisitor emblazoned all over them, etched into the very marrow. 

“I need to see the Eluvian.” Harding nodded without another word, falling in beside her like she’d done a hundred times. Maria splayed a comforting hand over her stomach as the baby protested her hurried movements. 

Inside Dagna’s workshop, both her and Bianca were sitting cross legged next to the machine meant to power the rune, guts and ingredients spilled in a chaotic jumble around them. Bianca didn’t move when Maria entered, but Dagna jumped up. “Oh! We’re just…” 

Maria bypassed Dagna, heading straight to the corner and ripping the cloth covering the Eluvian to the ground. She caught sight of her steely eyed reflection in the shining surface, red hair windswept, face serious and intense. 

The dwarves once had access to the fade, but lost it. Her mind supplied images of the Elven statues in the Deep Roads, the whispered rumblings of the Golem saying  _ her _ blood once saved the elves of Arlathan and paid with it for their lives.

“What if the elves didn’t build them?” Maria asked the quiet air around her. “What if they provided the magic, but the dwarves provided the labor?” 

The enchantments, the lyrium, the runes, the elegant masterwork only wrought by people like Dagna and Bianca. Smiths and enchanters, miners and shapers. Solas had been so upset that the dwarven empire had fallen so low. “And in exchange, the elves provided the dwarves passage into the fade?” 

“It’d be a good story.” Harding hedged carefully. “But it doesn’t help, does it?” 

Your past is your future, the golem said. It handed her the most complete dwarven history available, untouched by the Shaperate’s political machinations, before crumbling in front of her. There was a reason, there had to be a reason.

There  _ had  _ to be a reason Maria Cadash survived the Conclave, that she survived the Crossroads. There had to be a damned good reason she kept getting called back, again and again. 

“If dwarves had access to the Fade before, we don’t now.” Bianca’s turquoise eyes bore into her shoulders. Maria didn’t turn around to face them.

“One does.” Dagna breathed softly. Maria could hear her mind spinning from feet away. 

She wanted that last mirror in the Crossroads to close behind her, and it did. She’d thought it was Andraste, then she’d believed it was Solas, but maybe…

She’d never tried. Morrigan had opened the Eluvian at the Well, the one at Skyhold. Flemuth slammed the damn thing shut behind her when she raced after Kieran, but she’d been in too big a hurry to turn and examine it. In the Crossroads, the path she needed had always been open thanks to the Qunari. The one time, the one moment she wanted desperately with everything inside her for the path to shut and she’d only had herself to accomplish the task, it had gone blank. A miracle.

Maria reached out her remaining fingers and brushed the surface of the mirror. Something jumped beneath them, a tingle of power that lifted the hair on her arm. Color swirled from where her fingers danced, a blaze of shimmering light that made the mirror into an inviting pool of magic that breathed across her skin like a summer breeze. 

Not a miracle, then. Dagna once told her the anchor was a key, made to open, but that Maria used it to close. Chantal Amell smiled and reminded her that magic left echoes, a power that remained inside her even after the loss of the anchor.

She was still a key, and she could still open  _ and _ close. She’d been irrevocably changed when she tumbled out of the breach. The day she died, they wouldn’t just find the burning pierced eye of the Inquisition on her heart or Varric’s name carved with a blade on her ribs next to Bea’s and Fynn’s, they’d find Solas’s magic swirling in her blood. 

“I’ll get Rylen.” Harding was grinning ear to ear. “I’ll put a team together, we’ll go in and see what we can find. Nice job, Inquisitor. As always.” 

“Armor!” Dagna exclaimed, peeling off to another of her work benches. “I haven’t even started! Your armor was ruined in the Crossroads and I need to…” 

“You have time, Dagna.” Maria couldn’t look away from the blazing colors. “Take care of Rylen and Harding’s team. I won’t be going in yet.” 

She’d made her man a promise. Nine months after the baby was born, a whole year spent in Kirkwall before she began to chase the Dread Wolf herself. One year to adjust to her missing arm, one year to practice shooting, one year to endear herself to the home that Varric gave her. 

Nine months to make sure the baby they wanted more than anything would be okay without her. Nine months as nothing more than Viscountess, nothing more than a new mother. 

It would be a lie, of course, now that the Eluvian was open she’d be here as often as she could. She’d be planning, waiting, scheming… she’d never be just Varric’s wife, just the Viscountess, just their baby’s mother. 

But she’d made a promise and she kept her promises. 

“I’ll stay here while you go in, Harding. A quick look around, not too far.” She ordered, turning away from the surface. “I’ll have to close it when you’re done.” Harding ran off to fetch Rylen, racing out of the room and into the hallway. 

“I was wrong about you, Cadash.” Bianca still sat cross legged on the floor, surrounded by gears, head tilted to the side and examining her like she was a damn machine herself. “Didn’t take you for one that could be talked into compliance.” 

“Not compliance.” Maria smiled as Varric’s words slipped out of her mouth. “Compromise.” 

It wouldn’t be easy, but they’d make it work. It would be unconventional, unique, and completely, wholly, theirs. Their love story, their family, their child, their lives. 

“Princess, I can honestly say I didn’t quite expect you to get that open any time soon.” 

She smiled even wider. The poor man must have dropped everything to chase her down to the docks. He still had a smudge of ink on his cheek, Bianca thrown over his back, Cole hovering nervously at his elbow as Varric shot daggers with his eyes at the Eluvian. “Harding’s going through.” She explained with a shrug. “It turns out, despite what I told Dorian, I may have shut that last mirror in the Crossroads. Please don’t tell him.” 

“You were afraid.” Cole frowned, fingered his daggers. “Your last chance to save us.” 

“Of course you did.” Varric’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed his forehead. “Is it too late to fight about it?” 

“Yes.” Maria decreed as she crossed the room and into Varric’s waiting arms. She brushed the ink smudge with her thumb thoughtlessly as he rested his forehead against hers. 

“Your crossbow isn’t ready.” He murmured, eyes closing. 

“I just have to stand here and close it when Harding gets back. I’m not going.” She reassured. “Not yet. Not until Magpie’s old enough to be weaned, I promised.” 

Compromise. They could compromise. She felt some of the tension bleed out of Varric’s shoulders and she stroked his stubbled jaw gently. “We may have to spend the night at the Gallows though.” 

Varric’s pained groan made her laugh in spite of herself, the sound curling around her like wings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost at the end <3 <3 We have one more chapter and a short epilogue, then Maria and Varric's journey will be over.


	40. The Magpie and the Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years later, Varric observes a Magpie, a Mouse, and a Hawke.

Maria laughed when Varric talked about the Oracle. She barely remembered that jaunt into the fade and subscribed to Varania’s stubborn, persistent explanation that demons lied. According to her, nothing he saw there could be trusted. If he badgered Maria long enough, she’d smile that rakish tip of her lips, shrug her shoulders, and tell him that even if what he saw was real, there were  _ thousands _ of possible futures all contingent on people making small choices. 

Maria didn’t know that their daughter grew to look  _ exactly _ like he knew she would, though. At four years old, he could already see the young woman she’d be. She had his golden hair, bright red in the early morning or late afternoon sun, but it fell in Bea’s gentle curls to her shoulders. Freckles dashed playfully across her nose, a lopsided grin, and big, soft gray eyes like spring skies after the rain completed the picture. 

She was also, he thought fondly, every inch their daughter. She had his flair for the dramatic, his burning curiosity, his tenacious persistence. But it was her mother that he saw more and more, Maria’s compassion towards small, helpless things like the fish at the docks or birds with broken wings. She wore Maria’s blazing fearlessness and her crackling restless energy like a well-loved coat. 

She also had her mother’s stubborn pride and fiery temper, which Varric was currently watching with great amusement. Sebastian Vael’s daughter, despite being two years older, didn’t stand a chance in hell. Varric  _ almost  _ felt bad. 

Almost. 

“You cannae play wi’ it.” The auburn-haired child stated firmly, cerulean eyes blazing as she stared down the smaller dwarven girl. “You’re too wee still.” 

Audrey Vael clutched a small bow in her fist, a blunted arrow in the other. She had her father’s posture, a holier than thou tip of her head. Varric could see it chafing Marguerite’s already frayed temper. 

“She can shoot.” Eli didn’t look up from the brightly colored bits of glass sparkling in the sun, crouching on his knees at the circle drawn around the marbles. “It’s your turn anyway, Audrey.” 

Varric knew what was about to happen before any of the other children did. The only one who had even a hint was Sabina, who lifted her nose from the book she was reading to scent the air like she could smell a storm coming. 

Audrey let her eyes flick from the clever, quick child in front of her back to Eli and the marbles. It was just the distraction his daughter needed. She reached out and yanked the bow out of Audrey’s hands, spinning in a half second and making a beeline for the hedge maze. His Sunshine wasn’t stupid, she knew she couldn’t outrun the human girl with her long, lanky limbs. But Sunshine knew that hedge maze like the back of her hand and Audrey did not. 

“Audrey!” Eli protested, snatching the other girl’s tunic as Marguerite began to run. It was just the head start his girl needed, vanishing into the hedge maze. “Just let her play, Audrey…” 

The Vael girl tore herself free of Eli with a fierce glare and took off into the maze after Sunshine. He could hear Marguerite’s ringing laughter, Audrey’s increasingly frustrated yells. Eli looked after the pair of them forlornly before looking back towards the keep and meeting Varric’s eyes. “Why do they always fight?” He asked with his father’s serious resignation. Varric nearly laughed.

He  _ suspected _ Marguerite very much didn’t like Audrey stealing her favorite playmate and he could tell Audrey Vael wasn’t used to sharing, but poor Fledgling would have to learn about women the same way every other boy did. Slowly and painfully. 

“I’ll take Audrey’s turn.” Sabina put aside her book, using a blade of grass to save her place. She was taller than Varric by just an inch, fast approaching adolescence. She’d be as graceful as a willow tree, just like her mother, but taller he’d bet.

The same exact way the Oracle had shown her, tall and graceful, sure and confident. There may have been a thousand futures, but Varric thought they’d landed on one. The one they’d been meant to have all along. 

“Awful lot of commotion out here, Varric!” Hawke yelled from behind him. “Who is doing all that yelling?” 

Varric gestured grandly to the hedge maze. “In thirty years when Kirkwall and Starkhaven are at war, somebody should remember that this is how it started. Two girls arguing over one bow.” 

“If it wasn’t the bow, it’d be something else.” Hawke stated cheerfully. Varric turned as she fell into place beside him, both arms circled around two sturdy, dark haired toddlers.

“So you two finally decided to join the party.” Varric grinned, looking into the two matching faces. Hawke’s twins were just about two years old and were nearly identical with one startling difference. Kestrel, the elder by a whopping three minutes, had the same piercing green eyes as her brother and father. Nesrin’s bright orbs were the same lyrium blue as her mother’s, but she was by far the most quiet and reserved of Hawke’s three children, Fenris’s daughter to the very bone. She buried her face in Hawke’s shoulder while Kestrel reached one arm for Varric’s golden earring. 

“It does not appear you are doing much to resolve the problem.” Fenris remarked disapprovingly, lifting Nesrin from her mother’s arms. Feeling more secure in Fenris’s tight grip, Nesrin let her bright eyes drift to Varric. 

“C’mon Bashful, let’s get a smile out of you.” Varric crooned instead of answering Fenris. Nesrin’s chubby cheeks lifted just the smallest amount, but her sister giggled. Varric grinned in response, turning to the other baby just before she managed to get her searching fingers through the gold loop. “Alright, Brash. I see you too.” 

“I thought…” Maria’s sultry whisper broke in on his other side as she slipped her arm through his. She sounded torn between amusement and exasperation. “You said you could handle the four of them for a half hour.”  

Seven years he’d been lucky enough to hear that whisper in his ear, but every single damn time it still hit him like strong whiskey on an empty stomach. He met her clear gray eyes and smiled expansively. “They’re all still alive.” He protested in his own defense.

“What in the Maker’s name…” Sebastian muttered, falling in beside Fenris. “Is that Audrey yelling like a…” 

Varric dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that carried no farther than Hawke and Maria. “Chantry mouse was asking for it, I assure you.” 

Hawke snorted in amusement and Maria shook her head before leaning against his broad shoulder. They were all just in time to see Marguerite race out of the hedge maze through another entrance, Audrey’s objections coming fast and furious behind her. Without a glance towards the assembled adults, Marguerite raced towards the abandoned quiver of arrows next to where Eli and Audrey had been shooting marbles. She plucked one with ease and confidence (her mother’s confidence, he thought proudly) and whirled to the tree where Sabina’s book sat, discarded. 

Audrey emerged from the hedge maze just in time to see the arrow loosed. It hit perfectly center and Marguerite whirled in a self-indulgent display of smugness, sticking her tongue out at the red-faced older girl. Fledgling laughed, which only served to make the situation more precarious. Audrey stomped forward, red to the very roots of her auburn hair. 

“You’re a thief!” Audrey accused, looming over Marguerite. Marguerite looked up, stubbornly refusing to be cowed. 

“You won’t share!” She protested. 

“Magpie!” 

“Audrey!” 

Despite both Sebastian and Maria breaking in at the same time, the words carried clearly across the garden. Both girls turned toward the assembled audience full of indignant rage and hurried explanations. 

“She stole mah bow!” 

“She won’t let me play!” 

“She messes everythin’ up!” 

“It was my turn!” 

“Magpie, is that yours?” Maria asked pointedly, jerking her chin at the bow. With a mutinous expression that reminded him of her aunt Bea, Marguerite threw the bow down. 

“Audrey, we are guests here.” Sebastian started, patiently and gently. Before Varric could hear any more, his attention was stolen by Marguerite throwing herself at his legs, burying her face in the outside of his thigh. Varric grinned apologetically at Maria as he bent down to lift the girl into his arms. 

“She’s mean.” Marguerite complained against his neck in a voice that threatened tears. “I want her to go home.” 

Varric chuckled, smoothing back the simple braids containing her curls. “I know, Sunshine. Two more days, okay?” 

“One more.” The child tried to negotiate, twisting her arms tight around his neck. “Please?” 

“Two more.” He corrected softly, laying his hand on her back. “It’ll go fast, I promise.” 

Marguerite sighed as if she didn’t quite believe him, tilting her head to peer at her mother. The two sets of gray eyes met and Maria beamed, reaching out to tuck an errant stray curl behind Marguerite’s ear. “That was a very good shot, love.” 

He didn’t see his daughter’s smile, but he felt it. It was the same way he felt more than saw Eli approaching. 

“C’mon Mags, I’ll let you play with my marbles.” The kid used that special voice, the one he inherited from his mother that could charm the pants off any grubby merchant or ensnare a broody elf of his very own, if he was so inclined when he was older.

“Thank you Fledgling.” Maria ruffled her godson’s hair affectionately. 

“Hawke.” Marguerite corrected peevishly. 

Beside Varric, Hawke beamed, but Fenris had a look that was altogether more complicated. It hadn’t surprised either man when Marguerite had begun calling Elias by his surname, an imitation of how Varric addressed his mother. Both children seemed to enjoy the game immensely. And Eli had been calling Marguerite by the shortened version of Magpie as long as anyone could remember. 

Varric could hear delighted cheerful teasing echoing into the past, bleeding from some unknown future. He thought Fenris could too. 

_ Watch it, Hawke! _

_ Mags! I see we have company. _

Without really knowing why, Varric touched his lips to the top of his Sunshine’s head. 

 

Varric looked down from the page he was reading to eye Marguerite’s still form critically. He couldn’t see her face without shifting, and depending on whether or not she was sleeping, moving could be bring disaster. If she thought he was off to do something more interesting than the whole ‘going to bed’ thing, she’d be out after him like a bolt of lightning. 

“Princess.” Varric called softly. Maria’s own form was curled around Marguerite’s in the bed, but she opened one gray eye lazily and fixed it on him with a sleepy, satisfied smile as she made a little purr of acknowledgement. “Is she out?” 

“Has been for twenty minutes or so.” Maria yawned and stretched slightly, smoothing the blue quilt over Marguerite’s chest.

Varric peered down suspiciously. “How long were you going to let me keep reading there, Maria?” 

Maria’s answering smile was so blissfully happy, he couldn’t help leaning over Marguerite’s head to capture her lips in a sweet, short kiss. “I  _ like _ this story too y’know.” Maria whispered against his lips, eyes fluttering closed. 

Varric huffed a quiet laugh. “You know, she’s going to make me reread the part she slept through.” 

“Good.” 

Varric carefully swung his legs from Marguerite’s bed, bending to place one more silent kiss on her head and replace his weight with the stuffed nug she usually slept with. He stood and stretched, the rustling from the other side let him know Maria was following suit, even as he licked his lips and doused the candle on the bedside table. The dim flicker of the torches from the hallway was enough to guide them both out quietly. Maria didn’t quite pull the door shut behind her, leaving just a crack to illuminate the cozy, shadowed bedroom that came alive in the sunlight.

It was full of books, games, dolls, a veritable zoo of stuffed critters, a prized small bow of her own and a closet bursting with fine dresses she  _ kept _ receiving from the Divine, Josephine, and Vivienne despite the continued protests of Maria that their daughter would never  _ ever _ consent to wear them. 

Maria slipped her fingers into his as they ambled down the hall. Varric squeezed them. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” 

“Merchant’s guild meeting.” Maria sighed unhappily. “Bright and early.” 

“Let’s skip it and do something else.  _ Anything _ else.” Varric pleaded. 

Maria smirked, shook her head. “You’ve missed the last five.”

“You’ve missed the last seven.” 

Maria laughed, the low sound rippling down the hallway as Varric pushed open their bedroom door and revealed their own perfectly cozy room. Instead of slipping into bed like Varric hoped she would, Maria went for the letters resting on the sofa with an air of pained resignation. “I’m going to have to leave again next week. Dorian’s found some more locked doors and he can get away from the Magisterium for a bit. I’ll go retrieve him and Bull, then we’ll see if we can…” 

Four years. Four years, and her silent war in the shadows continued. She had enough stake in the Crossroads now to safely call a section of it hers, and she was always pressing forward, pressing onward.

Solas, it seemed, was looking for  _ something _ . Chuckles seemed to think whatever it was could be found in the Crossroads, locked away or abandoned. Chantal Amell posited that Mythal hid something from Solas for some unknown reason before she vanished. Maria didn’t quite know what he was searching for, but she was determined to find it first. 

“Sebastian wasn’t helpful?” Varric asked with a laugh. Maria rolled her eyes heavenward. 

“Of course he wasn’t.” She muttered darkly. “He’s daft, but I guess he tries. He did offer to take Fledgling to Starkhaven when he’s older, make him a squire. Fenris was trying not to look triumphant but failed miserably.”    
It would be a huge achievement for Fenris to have his son, the son of a former slave, be a beloved, appreciated squire to the Prince of Starkhaven. “Hawke won’t want him to go.” Varric warned. “And I’m certainly not getting involved in an argument between those two.” 

“It’ll be years yet before we have to worry about it.” Maria waved his concern away airily. “He’s too small, he’d have to be at least Bean’s age, maybe even a little older.”

“Next you’ll be saying he wanted to take Sunshine and make her a proper lady.” Varric teased as he whipped his shirt off. The sudden silence from behind him was deafening. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a dark look had settled over Maria’s features.

“I told him no.” She admitted. “I know he’s right, and he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart. I’m  _ shit _ at teaching her to be a lady and she should probably know some of it if just so she knows which rules she’s breaking, but…” 

Maria shrugged, eyes settling back on the letters. “I can’t risk her being away from you, Varric. She needs to stay with us. With one of us. She’s safe here, surrounded by our family and I… I just can’t risk it.” 

Solas, the wolf looming over their home. Their life. So far, he’d shown no interest in Kirkwall or Sunshine, but if he did… Maria would never rest easy as long as the threat hung over them. He knew that. 

“You’re right.” He said instead, plucking the letters from her hand. “She stays with us until she’s old enough to take care of herself.” 

Maria’s answering smile still wasn’t easy and free enough for his liking, so he tugged her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Besides, I don’t think Starkhaven can handle her and being a proper lady is  _ highly _ overrated.” 

Maria pressed back against him, smile turning sinful. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in  _ anything _ proper, Varric.” 

“I’m not.” He admitted, tipping her chin upwards and claiming her mouth in a wicked, playful kiss. 

Let the dread wolf come to Kirkwall if he dared, Varric had his woman, his crossbow, and his friends. More than enough, he thought, to catch a wolf by the tail. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the epilogue <3 <3 <3 Thank you all so much!!


	41. Epilogue: Vanished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste always comes home.   
> Except for the one time she doesn't.

**9:63 Dragon - Solace (The 7th Month) 13th Day**  
**18 years after the Exalted Council**  
**City of Kirkwall, the Free Marches**  

 

Mags loved Kirkwall, but if she ever actually had to take over the city, she was going to make some changes. First and foremost, she was going to do _something_ about all the damn stairs. How in the Maker’s name was she supposed to make it home at a semi-decent hour when she had to climb a little over a thousand steps between her favorite pub in Lowtown and her bedroom? 

The little voice in her head that reminded her of Aveline reasoned that Mags _could_ have left the pub earlier, which meant she wouldn’t need to sneak into the Keep as dawn was breaking. The other voice, one that sounded _suspiciously_ like her aunt Isabela cackled and told her that breaking back into her own home at dawn was definitely part of the fun. 

Since there was really no hope of beating the sun back, Mags flopped down on the rough stone steps of the Hightown market and stretched out her legs. She tipped her head back to catch the first rays of sun on her upturned cheeks and smiled at the warmth painting her skin and the bubbly feeling of several drinks still lingering in her blood. 

“Girl, you fall asleep there I’m takin’ you for every sovereign you got on you.” 

Mags opened one eye and focused in the shadows underneath one of the awnings. She’d missed the slumped figure at first, too focused on her lingering buzz and the damn steps. She grinned in recognition. The man was stacking crates, but there was a clever gleam in his eyes as he examined her. “Dad or mom?” She asked brightly.

“Yer father pays me.” He muttered, continuing to stack the crates. “Pretty silver on top of this work, extra bit if we keep ya from harm, but nothin’ wrong with takin’ advantage of your foolish mistakes.” 

Her parents wouldn’t even be mad at him if he did rob her, they’d just tell her she’d have known better than to doze off on the Hightown Market steps. “Keep me from harm?” She questioned with a flutter of her lashes. “Where were you people at the pub tonight? There was a brawl and I was stuck in the middle of it!” 

The man chuckled darkly. “Heard you started it, girl.” 

Fair enough, but that great Antivan ass should have known better than to get handsy with the waitresses at her favorite haunt. Mags waved away his statement leisurely. “Details.” 

He huffed in something that could be described as fondness, shaking his head as he continued to unload crates. Mags reached up and twisted one curl around her finger, watching him for a moment before she grinned again. “Don’t suppose you’d give a girl a lift?” 

“You can walk yer drunk dwarven ass back to yer fancy bedroom. Don’t get paid near enuff for that.” He slung another crate down and looked up at her with an amused grin of his own. “I’d hurry though, if I were you. Lights been on up at the Keep for an hour, maybe more.” 

_Balls_. 

“Wait, what?” She sputtered, surging back up, trying to tally the time in her head by the shadows on the buildings. No, it was too early. Nobody at home should be stirring except for maybe Aveline, and she wouldn’t bother with the lights. Nobody would bother with lighting lamps unless…

Unless the Viscount and Viscountess were up and about, and her parents shouldn’t be up unless something had happened, either something interesting or something equally horrible. 

She very nearly stumbled up the steps, the man’s amused guffaws following her up into Hightown.

 

She didn’t normally come in the front door after one of her late nights, but it was certainly the quickest route into the Keep. It wasn’t like the guards were going to stop her, they smiled cheerfully as she strolled up. “Late night?” One asked with a roguish wink.

“Just up for a morning stroll, making sure alls well.” She lied, wrinkling her nose as their grins broadened conspiratorially. “Make sure you tell the Guard Captain about my initiative, Carrick.” 

“Of course, little lady.” The man nodded, opening the door with sparkling amusement dancing in his eyes. “Pleasure to see you so involved in the city.” 

She meant to say something else, but her attention was snapped away almost immediately. Coming down the main steps, fastening her gauntlets, jagged hair swaying around her chin… 

“Cass!” Mags squealed, running inside the open door, muffled footsteps still loud on the red carpet. Cassandra looked up, a smile tipping just one side of her lips up before Mags tossed her arms around the woman’s waist and beamed up. “Cass! When did you get here?” 

“Late last night.” Cassandra scrutinized Mags with a shake of her head. “I thought about waking you, but deemed it more important you sleep. Apparently, I’d have done better searching the taverns for you.” 

Mags adopted an innocently injured expression. “Cassandra, what would give you…” 

“You smell like the inside of a barrel of ale.” Cassandra chided. 

Mags laughed, she couldn’t help it. “At least it’s not a brothel?” 

Cassandra sighed, defeated, shaking her head. “I suppose that is true. You are young, it is no crime to act young.” 

Mags peered up into Cassandra’s face, taking in the weary lines on her forehead, the slumped shoulders. Mags frowned and tightened her grip. “Is everything okay? Are you staying long?” 

“It will be, but no, I’m not staying. I came only to retrieve your mother.” Cassandra admitted, brushing one hand through her short hair, speckled with more streaks of gray than the last time she’d seen it, but Cass still felt as solid as ever. 

Before she could ask the hundred other questions that flitted through her mind, she heard a throaty laugh from the top of the steps. “I see why it’s taking the servants forever to rouse you from bed. They probably sent someone down to search every damn tavern at breakneck speed, Magpie.” 

Maria Cadash moved silently down the steps, as if chasing the dawn shadows. Her hair, still brilliantly red, was braided over one shoulder and she had her crossbow slung over her back. Her eyes, despite the amusement, looked more flinty than usual and she was frowning to herself as she buttoned up her jacket with one deft hand. 

Mags thought her mother could do more with one hand than most could do with three. 

“Where are you going?” Mags asked first, but then decided it didn’t matter. “I’ll come with you, it’ll only take me a second to grab my stuff.” 

She wasn’t even done talking and her mother was shaking her head, sunlight sparkling off the gold necklace circling her throat. “Not this time, Magpie.” 

“I’m not drunk, I swear.” Mags protested, clasping her hands together. She was only a _little_ tipsy, and she’d sober up by the time they made it out of the city. “Please? I want to come.” 

“Nope.” Her mother smiled, reached up to tuck away the blonde curl that fell in front of her eyes no matter how many times Mags clipped it up. “We’re not negotiating. I need you to stay here and help your father.” 

Mags wilted in disappointment. She _loved_ Kirkwall, but helping her Father run the place was not on her list of favorite activities. Not when she could be traipsing the world next to her mother instead. “Next time.” Maria promised. 

“When will you be back?” Mags asked instead, choking on her temper. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t…

“No longer than two months, hopefully only one. I’ve got to get back to help with your party or your aunt Josie will have you in hoop skirts dancing waltzes.” Maria teased fondly. “Your dad and I ordered you something special for your eighteenth. I can’t let him take all the credit.” 

Her eighteenth birthday party, her passage from adolescence into adulthood. Theoretically. Still, she couldn’t argue with the gleam of pure joy in her mother’s eyes at the thought of whatever surprise they’d picked out.  

As if her mother summoned him, Varric slipped into place at her shoulder holding a packed bag. “All stocked up from Aveline’s cupboards.” He said cheerfully, passing the bag to Maria before examining Mags with a warm grin. “Good morning Sunshine. Or is it still good night for you?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mags crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Aveline’s looking for you. Something about a brawl down in Lowtown.” Her father didn’t miss the wince she couldn’t help, his grin broadening. Cassandra scoffed in blatant disapproval. Mags guessed she’d be spending the rest of her day hiding anywhere she could in the Keep, avoiding a lecture on propriety from Aveline. 

“I love you.” Maria stepped forward and pressed her lips to Mags cheek. “Keep them on their toes while I’m gone, Magpie. I’ll see you soon.” 

“I love you too.” Mags muttered under her breath. 

Her mother turned to her father and raised one eyebrow. “Walk a lady to the docks, Varric?” 

“Anything for you, Princess.” Varric chuckled, wrapping his arm around Maria’s waist as they slipped past Mags. Her father looked over their shoulders as they walked past. “Get to bed, Sunshine. I won’t tell Aveline I caught you sneaking in this morning.” 

Mags turned away with a heavy sigh, raising her voice as she began to stalk up even _more_ stairs. “Is it sneaking in if you use the front door?” 

The door on her right opened suddenly, Aveline’s scowling face topped with carrot red hair emerging frightfully fast. She pinned Mags in place and Mags fought the urge to descend into a torrent of cursing. “I don’t know.” Aveline folded her arms over her chest. “Is it?” 

  


**9:64 Dragon - Wintermarch (The 1st Month), 15th Day**  
**18th Birthday of Lady Marguerite Cassandra Tethras-Cadash, Heir to the Viscount of Kirkwall**  
**City of Kirkwall, the Free Marche** s 

 

“I thought this was your party, Mags.” 

Beatrix Cadash sounded so much like her mother that if Mags closed her eyes and pretended, she could believe that it was Maria Cadash come home. Instead, she looked up and met Bea’s somber gray eyes in the balcony doorway. Behind her, drifting from the party, Mags could hear laughter, music, the tinkling of glasses. 

“I hate it.” Mags complained, pulling her knees back up to her chin stubbornly and staring down at the harbor below. 

“Me too, kid.” Bea sighed wearily, crossing the balcony and leaning on the railing where Mags perched precariously. Bea hadn’t bothered dressing up, mostly because she couldn’t be on the official guest list anyway. She wore the same thing she always did, a tight shirt tucked into tighter pants. “Wanna go find a real party somewhere? I think Isabela’s taken over a bar by the docks.” 

The silk against her chin was cool, the crimson dress the same color as her mother’s hair. She’d even worn it without complaint, thinking that _somehow_ there was magic in it, enough to summon her mother back from wherever she’d vanished to six months earlier. But Mags didn’t have magic herself, and even the mages couldn’t find the missing Viscountess. 

Mags could always find her mother, always knew where to look. It had been a joke, a game when she was young. When nobody else could catch up with Maria Cadash, her daughter always could. But instead of looking for her mother, like she _should_ have been, Mags was wearing a stupid silk dress and rouge and listening to _boring_ music. 

“I thought she’d come.” It felt silly to admit it, childish. “She’s never missed my birthday, I thought she’d be here.” 

Bea was silent for a second too long, not looking at her but instead down at the docks as well, her face tight and grown old with stress. “I thought she would too, you know.” Bea admitted finally. “Maria never could resist a dramatic entrance. It’d be just like her to whirl in at the last possible second, full of apologies and impossible stories, contrite for making us worried out of our minds.” 

She wanted to ask Bea where her mother was, but Bea didn’t know. People everywhere had been searching for her, for Cassandra, for Dorian and the Iron Bull. All four seemed to have vanished in a puff of smoke as if they’d hardly existed at all. Sabina, adept at manipulating the Fade, scoured it nightly for a trace, old Inquisition scouts traced the Crossroads, spies listened everywhere.

And yet, nothing. No trace. 

“How’s your father holding up?” Bea asked gently. Mags ripped her eyes away from Bea’s shadow and back to the harbor immediately, blinking the tears away as quickly as she could. 

Bea sighed. “That bad, huh?” 

When he didn’t need to put on an act, Varric Tethras looked like he was being flayed alive. Maria couldn’t bear the dread that infused rooms that used to sparkle with laughter and charm. She couldn’t bear his quiet writing desk, his empty sheets of paper. Every day, Hawke’s mother came and tried to cheer him up. Every day, she failed miserably.

If her mother never came home, Mags would be an orphan before she turned nineteen. She knew it in her heart and she couldn’t stand to look it in the eye. 

“Mags!” 

She smiled in spite of herself, she always did when Eli yelled for her. He was the human equivalent of an overgrown puppy when he sauntered out onto the balcony in his suit, shirt already half-untucked, a cheesy grin on his face. “Please tell me you saw what the Comte de Launcet got you.” 

She hadn’t, and she was sure it was both gaudy and hilarious. Still, she swept her eyes back to the harbor below. 

“Go ahead, Mags.” Bea cajoled gently, inclining her head back towards Eli. “The night isn’t over and I can watch for her ship for a little while.” 

 

The night ended, and still, no sign. Thankfully, nobody made her go see out the last of the guests. She guessed it was the perk of it being her birthday. If it were any other night, any other birthday, she’d be giggling over a half-empty bottle listening to Eli conjure up impressions of every _git_ somebody tried to get her to dance with.

Instead, the champagne glass in her hand was untouched and she sat beside Eli on the steps to the wing of the Keep her family inhabited. 

“How’s Chantry Mouse?” Mags finally asked dully, slumping against Eli’s sturdy shoulder. Eli rolled his eyes, but felt too bad for her to give her hell. 

“Audrey’s fine. Said she’d have come, but she knew you really didn’t want her here.” Eli snarked back.

Mags frowned bitterly into the amber liquid and shrugged lightly. “She’s not wrong.” Mags stopped, considered. “Although she’d still be better company than some of the guests. Or me.” 

“We’ve reached self-deprecation already?” Eli asked, a wry smirk twisting his lips. “I’m not sure we’re drunk enough for this, Mags.” 

“We’re not.” Mags agreed, sitting the champagne glass beside her. “I can’t do this anymore, Hawke.” 

He didn’t ask what, he just moved his arm to curl companionably around her shoulders. Mags hunched her own forward. “You’re going back to Starkhaven?” 

“In a day or two.” Eli admitted softly, turning his sharp gaze to her fully. “Visit with the twins. Spar with my father, let mom fuss. Maybe keep you from doing anything stupid, the usual.” 

“Hawke.” Mags watched as her father and Aveline climbed the steps. “I never do _anything_ stupid.” 

“Yeah.” Eli didn’t sound convinced. “Sure thing. How _dare_ I think differently.” 

“Your parents are waiting, Eli.” Aveline began stoutly. “The girls are ready to go.” 

“Course they are.” Eli gently disentangled himself from his precarious position supporting her. He paused, both awkward and endearing, looking down at her with his kicked puppy eyes. 

“Stop worrying.” She pleaded dramatically, rubbing her forehead with the back of her palm. “If a girl can’t be maudlin on her own birthday, _when_ am I expected to do it? Let me face my impending mortality and the slow grind of time in peace, Hawke.” 

Her father’s lips twitched in a small show of amusement, the first real flicker of anything positive she’d seen on his face all night. Eli rolled his eyes again and turned, half-hearted, to follow Aveline out. Varric offered her his hand. “Ready for bed, Sunshine?” 

No, she wasn’t. But she took her dad’s hand anyway and let him pull her to her feet. She picked up the champagne glass and placed it on the banister instead, where at least someone wouldn’t trip over it. 

“You look good, Sunshine.” He slipped his arm through hers and gently began to steer her up the steps. “Red has always been your color.” 

She hated herself for asking, but it was her birthday, and she allowed herself to do it anyway. “Is there any word?” 

Varric’s frown deepened and he smoothed one hand over her back in a gentle, soothing motion. “No, Sunshine. Nothing yet, but you know how she is. Your mother always arrives on her own schedule.” 

She wilted and allowed him to guide her through the open door, taking the chance to examine his face in the torchlight. He looked older, sadder, a statue carved of stone and worn away by trials until there was nothing left but a veil of sorrow. She wanted him to laugh again. She wanted her mother to breeze in and bring the light back to his eyes. 

“Hey, come here for a second.” He guided her not towards her room, but his. Someone had lit a fire against the cold and it almost seemed cozy, except the absence and longing was as palpable as strong perfume. There were traces of Maria Cadash everywhere, one of her books on the sofa, a jacket hanging on the bedpost. It had been months, but her father didn’t move them. He probably couldn’t bring himself to do it.

There was a box on the bed, wrapped in red paper with a golden bow. It was lovely, elegant, and undoubtedly hers. Mags looked up into her father’s face. “Is that the gift you both ordered?”

Varric nodded, looking at it with that face again, the look of a man in as much agony as if he’d been flogged half to death. 

She remembered her mother’s eyes gleaming with joy at the thought of this surprise and Mags shook her head, shot a beseeching look up at her father. “I don’t want to open it until she gets home.” 

Because she was coming home, Maria Cadash _always_ came home. Late, sometimes (never this late, her traitorous mind supplied), but she always arrived. The thought that her mother wouldn’t come home… 

No, Mags would know if something happened. She could always find her mother, she’d feel it if Maria Cadash slipped away. “Please.” Mags clutched at her father’s silk covered arm, pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

“She’s coming home, Mags.” He reassured softly, pulling her into his tight embrace. “We’ll find her, or she’ll find us. I promise.” 

 

She didn’t know how long she stayed in her father’s embrace, long enough that she could still smell parchment and ink when she stumbled back into her room and cast her eyes over the pristine bedspread, the pitcher of cool water on the nightstand, the crackling fireplace of her own.

She could lay down in her bed, pull the covers over her ears, and wait for sleep to claim her. Her father would sleep soundly, at least, but Mags wouldn’t. She’d inherited more than her eyes from her mother. 

She’d also inherited her dreams. Her nightmares. She’d been having the same one for months, one where she found herself crashing through Eluvians, one after another, chasing something and being chased herself. She couldn’t face having that same dream one more time. She couldn’t lay down and pretend it would be okay. 

She ripped the buttons on the dress in her hurry to tear it off, to let the silk drop to the floor. Then she was pulling on cotton pants, a loose blouse, wrapping her favorite red scarf around her neck. Even after all this time, she swore it still smelled like spice and foreign places. Dorian sent it as a gift a year before, and he was missing too, missing with her mother, Cassandra, the Iron Bull…

Missing, but not dead. They couldn’t be dead.

She wrapped her shortbow in another blouse and shoved it into a bag along with a quiver half-full of arrows. Some more clothes, socks, a spare pair of boots… Her daggers, the ones Bea gave her, over her shoulders...

Maker, what was she _doing_? Did she really think if the best scouts and spies in the world couldn’t find them that she had a shot? She’d never left Kirkwall without her parents, never…

“You’re not ready.” A small, quiet voice came from behind her. “But you’re brave, and that’s enough.” 

She whipped around and spotted Cole lingering in her doorway, a bag in his hands that he thrust out to her. She stared at his pale eyes, swallowed hard. “Are you going to stop me?” She whispered. 

“No?” Cole shifted anxiously from one foot to another. “You wanted to go yesterday. And the day before. And before that. Every day. But it’s tonight, so I brought you food. You’ll get hungry.” 

She couldn’t help herself because it was Cole, and of all the people in the world, Cole probably knew her best. He’d been inside her head since the day she was born, untangling her like a ball of yarn, patiently sitting with her when she was sad, listening when she was angry, sharing her joy and pain. Tears sprung to her eyes and she launched herself at him, collided with his bony chest. 

“You’re afraid.” Cole placed one deceptively thin hand on her back. She knew it was more than enough to keep her in place. “If you go, things will never be the same. You’ll be part of the story, you’ll change the ending. But you are strong, smart, selfless. They never wanted you to feel trapped, stuck. They wanted you free, fearless, fierce. You should go. You need to.” 

“Take care of daddy for me?” She asked tearfully, pressing her face further into his narrow chest. “Please, Cole.” 

“Yes.” He promised. 

 

**9:64 Dragon - Drakonis (the 3rd Month), the 4th Day  
** **Val Royeaux, Orlesian Empire**

 

She saw Elias Hawke before he saw her. She had plenty of time to slip away and vanish, even if it would mean sacrificing the pot of money on the table in front of her. Hawke wasn’t exactly subtle or sneaky. He was also, obviously, looking for her in the crowded tavern, scanning the tables and the bar.

She didn’t move, but she didn’t meet his eyes when they landed on her either. Instead, she let them burn through her cheek for a bit before she looked up from her cards, meeting his indignant green eyes and crossed arms while he glowered at her from across the room. She shrugged and smiled and his scowl deepened so much that he looked like the spitting image of his father even if he didn’t have the tattoos or the white hair. 

He didn’t approach her until she won her hand, sweeping the coin towards her. Then, like a stormcloud, he was at her elbow. “Fancy meeting you here.” He began. 

“They do say Val Royeaux is the center of the world.” She quipped, dumping the coins into her purse and standing. “Gonna buy a girl a drink?” 

“I absolutely will not be doing that.” He glared at one of the men on her right, one that was leaning a bit too close to Mags for Hawke’s evident comfort. Immediately, the man straightened. Mags simply sighed.

“You’re scaring off my new friends.” She muttered, grabbing his arm and steering him away towards the tavern door. She didn’t speak again until they slipped out into the evening air. “I thought you were going back to Starkhaven.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before your little vanishing act threw everyone into a panic.” He scowled down at her, wrenching his arm from her grip. “My sisters went, though. Thought it’d be nice to have some experience out on their own and take some lessons with Audrey.” 

Maria rolled her eyes. “Why does everyone want to go to Starkaven? I’m more fun than the Mouse and you know, unlike you assholes, I can’t just leave Kirkwall…”

“I think.” Hawke began dryly. “That’s exactly what you did.” 

She laughed, which only served to irritate him more as he scowled down. “I knew you were going to do something like this, I should have…” 

“Hawke, really. Like you could have done anything to stop me.” He also couldn’t drag her home, not by himself. Sure, he could pick her up and haul her over his shoulder like that big ass sword strapped to his back, but he couldn’t carry her the whole way back to Kirkwall. “How’d you find me?” 

“Somebody working for your aunt saw you in Lydes, but she wasn’t sure if you got on the ship to Cumberland or Val Royeaux. I didn’t want to search Cumberland with all those dreary Nevarrans, so here I am.” 

She was almost touched and it made her soften just a bit. “Hawke, have you been looking for me this whole time?” 

He smiled to himself, shook his head. “Not the whole time. Some people thought you’d come back when you ran out of coin or that you’d head to a guild hall to take out money, but I knew better.” 

Aveline, of course. Apparently the guard captain forgot she learned how to gamble with the best of them. Mags was in no danger of running out of coin anytime soon. “And your dad didn’t send anyone.” Hawke continued, shrugging. “He said as long as he kept getting letters… well, he didn’t want you to stay in Kirkwall if you couldn’t bear it. He misses you, though.” 

She missed him too. A lot. She even missed Kirkwall and all those damn steps. “But you’re here now. Is something…” 

Hawke frowned, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and began to walk with her, shoulders hunched forward. “Varania hasn’t heard from Sabina since before you left.” 

Oh shit. Mags looked up, saw the anxiety rolling in Hawke’s eyes. It wasn’t unusual for Sabina not to write, the woman was constantly on a ship somewhere, had joined a crew at eighteen and bounced from port to port. Letters got lost too easily, but…

Sabina didn’t _need_ letters. Sabina walked in and out of dreams like she breathed, easily and gracefully. She left all of them alone, mostly, but she always kept in contact with her mother. If it had been months… 

Sabina had been looking for Maria Cadash because Sabina was _excellent_ at finding people. Between her magic and her dreams, she could track nearly everyone, but even she had no luck finding the missing Herald of Andraste. “Have you seen her?” Hawke asked.

Honestly, she’d expected to at some point in time. Sabina was a hard woman to miss, tall and gorgeous in any crowd. Especially if they were both looking for her mother… it would have made sense to run into Sabina. “I haven’t.” Mags admitted. “What ship was she on last? Has anyone…” 

“Right before I left Kirkwall, we got the news that someone saw her about a month ago in Amaranthine. Thom went to search for her, but… I think she’s in Rialto.” Hawke admitted quietly. 

Mags realized it immediately, scrutinizing the man above her. “You said Varania hasn’t heard from Sabina, but you didn’t say _nobody_ has heard from her.” 

“I’ve seen her three times.” Hawke admitted quietly. “The last time… she looks bad. Tired. She asked… she asked if I’d let her drown. I think we were in Antiva, she was talking about how she loved the Rialto bay and…” 

“Are you sure it was her?” Mags asked gently, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “Not just a dream?” 

“It was her.” Hawke sounded sure. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with your mother, but everyone’s frightened that Maria’s gone, now Sabina… Your dad’s a wreck with worry about it.” 

And so they’d sent someone to find her, to make sure she too didn’t slip away in a puff of smoke like a forgotten dream. But Hawke was frightened for his cousin, Mags could tell, and he wanted to go find her. They’d always been told mages like Sabina were vulnerable to demons, and if Sabina had… 

But Bina wouldn’t. That would be as crazy as finding out aunt Bea became a chantry sister. 

“We’ll go to Rialto then and find Bina.” Mags declared. “Maybe she found something. Maybe it has to do with mom, maybe not, but we need to make sure she’s alright. Then… it wouldn’t hurt to go back to Kirkwall for a day or two to let dad see me, would it?” 

The last part was a lie, but Hawke didn’t need to know that. Mags had no intention of returning home without her mother.

Hawke smiled, relieved, tightened his grip on her shoulder warmly. “Right, I knew you… I knew I could count on you.”

“What are friends for?” Mags asked with a grin. 

Hawke’s grin became a bit contrite. “On that note, I’m going to need to borrow some money. Ran out of mine.” 

Mags sighed wearily and held out her coin purse. “Let’s find a ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the Viscount's Mistress <3 <3 
> 
> Thank you all for your love and support! Please let me know if you'd be interested in following along with any further adventures of this crew (particularly Mags, Eli, Sabina, and Audrey!)


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